Fire and Salt
by WriterandDaydreamer4218
Summary: Prophecies are notoriously fickle; it's no surprise that the maesters didn't get everything exactly right. Nevertheless, Westeros has two saviors: a prince of winter and a dragon queen who both must unite to stop an almost unbeatable foe before winter comes in full and there is nothing left to save. Hypothetical War for the Dawn.
1. Chapter 1

**Welcome to my first** ** _Game of Thrones_** **fanfiction!**

 **Things you should probably know about the story: so, obviously, this is a story about the impending 'War for the Dawn' against the White Walkers. I read this theory once that Azor Ahai and the Prince Who Was Promised were two different people and I thought that would be an interesting thing to base a story around. This will have Jon/Dany in it-I love that pairing so much and I refuse to believe that Jon is really dead. So, in order to keep myself entertained during hiatus, I decided to write a hypothetical season seven and beyond. I'm going to kind of skip over season 6, but I'll reference events that happened during that time frame so it chronologically makes sense. Also, this story may have book characters and mild book plotlines-for example, if I need some extra characters I tend to look in the back of the books where they list all the characters so I don't really have to invent any OCs.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Game of Thrones. All rights go to HBO and GRR Martin.**

 **I think that's everything. My author's notes are not normally this ridiculously long. Apologies.**

 **Enjoy!**

The last things Jon remembered were the knives-and the cold. He remembered seeing the faces of the men he'd once called his friends-his brothers, even-staring at him stony faced. Some had daggers, but most had just stared at him blankly, not trying to kill him but not trying to interfere either. He didn't know how it had come to this. He'd just been trying to do what was right.

 _For the Watch._

 _For the Watch._

 _For the Watch._

 _For the Watch._

He'd been stabbed four times; the last by his squire Olly. The Night's Watch had had him killed because they thought they had to. They thought he was going against his vows, when all he'd been doing was trying to save the world.

He'd just been trying to be a hero.

Jon had thought that would have been that. He was drifting in darkness-formless, faceless, and cold as the ice that covered the wall like frosting on cake. Dead as all of the stone kings in their crypts under Winterfell.

And then the smell of salt had flood his nostrils and he'd become aware of a loud keening sound-someone was wailing. Or not wailing exactly, but chanting something in a tongue that sounded anything but human-faster and louder until it was all he could hear, until it consumed him…A blast of cold air roared into his lungs. It was so frigid that it froze his chest and made him gasp for air he couldn't take in but it didn't matter. He didn't care because breath meant life-and he was alive. Never mind how this had all had come to pass. Never mind he'd been stabbed in the chest four times.

He was alive.

The chanting slowly solidified into words he could understand. He recognized Melisandre's voice, using the same tone she always used when she prayed over the night fires when it grew dark. "R'hllor! Lord of Light! Raise up your servant, Jon Snow! Raise up your promised one! Raise up Azor Ahai reborn!"

Shapes formed before his eyes-the crackling flames and the shapes of his black brothers and a small crowd of wildlings, all watching him with muted expressions of awe and terror. Slowly, feeling returned to his arms and legs and he realized he was lying on a funeral pyre. The flames were licking his skin, but they left no marks. He wasn't being burnt; in fact, he couldn't even feel the fire.

He pushed himself to a sitting position and brushed a stray lock of dark hair out of his eyes. He felt…different. Yes, he'd been brought back from the dead-but was he still Jon Snow anymore, 998th Lord Commander of the Night's Watch? He couldn't tell.

"Azor Ahai!" the Queen's Men chanted, over and over again. "Azor Ahai! Azor Ahai! AZOR AHAI!"

"He is Azor Ahai!" Melisandre cried over the clamor, her voice ringing out loudly. "He is our savior! He will deliver us from darkness! He will bring back the dawn!"

She seemed to be talking about him, but Jon couldn't imagine why. He was no one's savior, just Ned Stark's bastard son. All he'd done was become Lord Commander of the Night's Watch-and even then his own men had conspired to murder him. He was nothing-less than nothing. He was certainly not a hero. "What are you talking about?" he asked, rising from the flames. "I'm not-"

"You are the Bringer of the Dawn. The Lord of Light has resurrected you to be his champion against the coming night." Melisandre explained, still using her priestess voice. "For the night is dark and full of terrors."

Jon rubbed his eyes against the smoke of the fires. The shadows seemed to be dancing in front of his eyes, materializing and breaking apart. He could feel them talking to him as they danced around the fire. The world seemed louder and more vivid somehow than it had before he…died.

What was happening to him?

Melisandre's hand closed around his elbow and led him to his old rooms behind the armory. "Rest now, Lord Snow." He didn't protest. His head was spinning and smoke inhalation was making him slightly nauseous. In fact, a few hours of sleep might be just what he needed.

He fell asleep still seeing the fire, still hearing the crowds chanting his name.

Azor Ahai.

The Bringer of the Dawn.

~GOT~

Jon dreamt of strange things.

First he was back at Winterfell, in the palace's great hall. There were all the people he had known and loved, once upon a time-the servants: Farlan, Mikken, Old Nan, and Hodor; and his family. But something was different. His father was short a head, Robb's brown jerkin was peppered with spots of red, Bran's eyes were completely white, and Catelyn wore a necklace of blood. They were feasting on carrion, on the eyes and teeth of their direwolves. He could hear a voice whispering over it all, repeating the same three words over and over again until he thought it would drive him insane: "Promise me, Ned…Promise me, Ned…"

The scene shifted to show a field of the dead walking, with their blue tinged skin and bright blue eyes-the color of deep snowdrifts in the early light of dawn.

Then he was standing in a large amphitheater like structure covered in sunlight. Thousands of people crowded the stands, baying for blood while a dragon flew by overhead. Sunlight glimmered off of its deep black scales.

The scene shifted once more to show a girl standing on a granite pedestal, a dragon on each shoulder and one crouched at her feet. She had long silver blonde hair and eyes that were almost violet. "We are the song of ice and fire." she said, smiling at him as she took a step forward. Jon felt him inexorably propelled toward her. She seemed familiar somehow, like he'd seen her before-though he knew he hadn't.

He saw the wight too late.

It stepped up beside the woman and plunged a sword into her abdomen. The blade was so cold it smoked as it pierced her worm flesh. Jon tried to reach her in time but it was too late. He woke up with her screams in his ears and a name upon his lips.

Castle Black was as cold and desolate as it always was. He could hear the mutters of the other rangers as they got ready for the day. For a moment, he lay where he was and listened to the clatter of bowls in the dining hall, the clash of steel in the training yard, and the squawks of the ravens in their tower. He was home-and yet he wasn't. He knew he could never call Castle Black his home again. Savior or not, he would never be welcomed back.

Just then, there was a knock on his bedroom door and Bowen Marsh walked in with a straight face and a tray packed with breakfast sausages and a bowl of gruel. "Welcome back, Lord Snow." he said in a way that suggested he meant the exact opposite. "You have been removed from your post of Lord Commander, as I'm sure you will understand."

Jon did-but that didn't make the news any less hard to hear. "Am I still a brother of the Night's Watch?"

"Your watch ended at your death. You owe no vows or fealty to us."

Jon nodded. He had expected nothing less-although he still didn't know exactly what he was going to do or where he was going to go. He broke his fast in silence. For some reason, Three Fingered Hobb's delicious food tasted like leather on his tongue. His thoughts kept flitting back to the woman in his dream-and her screams as she was murdered. He had a name now; Daenerys Targaryen, for whatever that was worth. Unfortunately, he knew nothing about her or where he could find her.

So he began to ask around. Soon he was hearing tales of dragons in the Far East and a dragon queen who fed on the blood of infants and bathed in the blood of virgins to keep herself eternally beautiful. Not the most flattering of descriptions.

And then Othell Yarwyck came to him with a different story.

"They say she's conquered Slaver's Bay and freed thousands of slaves. They call her their mother. Rumor has it she's the most beautiful woman in the world." he said, looking anywhere but at Jon. Most of the Night's Watch men still at Castle Black did what he asked of them-although Jon didn't know whether they acted out of a sense of duty or a sense of fear. Certainly they held no love for him.

"What does she look like?"

"Hair like rays of sunshine, eyes like purple sunsets. Why do you ask, Snow? Do you fancy taking a dragon to wife?"

Jon was about to say that went against his vows until it struck him that he had no vows anymore. He was no longer a member of the Night's Watch. He could hold all the titles and father all the sons he wanted to. But he had no interest in a wife-not until the Others had been defeated once and for all.

"No-but we need all the allies against the White Walkers we can get." The kings and lords of the Seven Kingdoms didn't seem to care about the menace growing in the far north and their foremost ally, Stannis Baratheon, was now dead. They were running out of time-and options.

"You think she can stop the wights?"

"No-but her dragons can."

Yarwyck laughed. "You believe that tale? Dragons have been dead for years."

"That's what we thought about the Others-before they started killing us."

Jon began to feel caged in his rooms. Melisandre had warned him to watch his back. His resurrection had probably scared off the worst of the fanatics, but there were some in the Night's Watch who would not hesitate to kill him again-for good, this time. Finally, when he couldn't take it a second longer, he headed to wilding compound outside Castle Black where all the survivors of the Hardhome massacre had made their homes. There were quite a few-enough to strain their already almost nonexistent food supply-but there were also too few, compared to what the settlement had once been. Tormund Giantsbane was their new leader; he had been at Hardhome and fought the Wights alongside Jon. He knew what a serious problem the Wights were-and what damage they could cause if their numbers were allowed to run unchecked.

The wildlings all glanced at him distrustfully. The once proud people had been diminished greatly; now they wore whatever clothes they had left to wear and fought over what few scraps of food the Night's Watch would permit them to have. A few nodded their acknowledgment but most just ignored him completely.

"Where is Tormund?" Jon asked a passing Thenn.

The Thenn glared at him but pointed to a small hut in one corner of the compound that was covered in furs. Two sentries stood guard outside.

"Who passes?" one of them asked as Jon stopped in front of the tent. He recognized the boy from Hardhome-he had sandy hair and a sprinkling of freckles.

"Jon Snow, here to see your leader Tormund Giantsbane."

The two guards conversed in low tones for a moment before they stepped aside to let Jon enter. "Did you really return from the dead?"

"Yes. I think I did." He didn't really understand what had happened himself, but everyone else seemed convinced that he was been reborn and he was happy to keep it that way.

Tormund was deep in conversation with a group of wildlings but he nodded to Jon when he entered the tent. "Nice to see you up and about again, Crow! They told me you'd be out of commission for another few weeks at least!"

"The Night's Watch doesn't expect a lot of things that come to pass." Jon answered. "And I'm no longer a crow."

"How do you figure that?"

"I rose from the dead. I'm a new man-and I don't think I'm meant to me part of the Night's Watch." If Melisandre could be believed, he was meant to be a savior instead.

"So you've finally decided to change cloaks."

"I didn't say that either. I'm here to discuss the Others."

Tormund's face seemed to whiten. "What about them?"

"We have to know how to defend ourselves. We need more dragonglass-as much as the wildlings can provide. Hardhome crippled our defenses-we can't let something like that happen again." He could still remember the army of reanimated wildling corpses rising from the snow under the control of the Night's King. The situation was dire-they were outnumbered and outgunned.

Dragons couldn't possibly hurt their cause-assuming they could acquire some that is.

"I would love to just hand over all of our dragonglass and Valyrian steel weapons," Tormund said sarcastically "If there were any bloody more to hand over! You and your crows seem to have bled us dry."

Jon bit his tongue and tasted warm blood. "This is a bigger problem than the Night's Watch and the wildlings. This affects all of us-and everyone in the Seven Kingdoms as well. If they are allowed to breach the wall, there won't be a Westeros left to save."

"And what would you suggest we do about it?"

"I'm writing to the Citadel for information. Until then, I need to know where you found all your obsidian."

"We don't find them. Obsidian daggers have been in our homes and families for generations. Our ancestors told us to keep them safe-so we did. But as time passed we lost our dragonglass for one reason or another-in exchange for food or in repayment for debts. Our stores are not what they once were."

This day just kept getting worse and worse. "Then we need Valyrian Steel-and those are practically nonexistent." In fact, Jon had one of the only swords of Valyrian steel in the entire Night's Watch. If all the Others could be killed by fire things would be simpler-but White Walkers were impervious to it.

"Are you really our savior?" Tormund asked mockingly, as though the very idea that Jon could ever be anything more than a simple bastard was absolutely ludicrous.

"No. I'm just doing what has to be done." He ran a hand through his shaggy black hair, already covered with a thin layer of frost even in the heat of the tent. "Winter is here."

"I don't doubt that. It's bloody cold out. But don't worry-we beat those buggers once. We can beat them again."

Jon wasn't so sure-which was why he needed to look outside the ring of typical allies. The White Walkers even now could be holding meetings in the frigid north, planning their assault on the Wall. The Night's Watch had seen them; they knew what was coming. They had to be ready. "For that we need weapons. Gather the obsidian from among the free folk and distribute it to those who can fight. I'll be back in a few days to chart your progress."

Tormund was still looking at him strangely. "You've changed. Sure, you're not a crow anymore-but what are you now?"

"I'm not sure I know myself-but I know I've seen the enemy. And we have much to do."

He left the wildling camp soon after. He felt like a wraith, travelling from one home to another but never truly belonging in any one place. He wasn't holding out much hope for Tormund; no matter how many obsidian daggers he managed to scrounge up they still wouldn't have close to enough.

Finding his way back to his chambers, he dethawed an extra inkwell and penned a quick letter:

 _To Daenerys Targaryen,_

 _You do not know me, no more than I know you. My name is Jon Snow, recently deposed Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. For the past four years the Watch has heard reports of undead Wights roaming the lands north of the Wall. At first they were dismissed as fairy tales, as you might dismiss them before you finish this letter. But I know differently._

 _The Others are real and they have returned._

 _I have faced them myself. They are exactly as the stories describe: taller than most humans and cold enough to shatter steel. Fire agitates them and Valyrian steel and obsidian (better known as dragonglass) can kill them. We are sorely lacking in both._

 _I ask you, as I asked all the other kings and lords in Westeros, for what help you can give-arms, weapons, or knowledge. The Night's Watch is not what it once was. Years of neglect have left us badly understaffed and unequipped to face such a foe. Please heed our summons; I fear we cannot hold the Wall for long. Should the Others breach the Wall or bring it down altogether, the Seven Kingdoms would be defenseless-and the Free Cities could be endangered as well._

 _It is urgent that we meet as soon as is convenient._

 _Sincerely,_

 _Jon Snow, formerly of the Night's Watch_

He read the letter over twice and sent it out with the first available raven. Then all that was left to do was wait.

The days passed slowly at Castle Black, as they always did. Jon didn't get a reply-but then again he didn't really expect one. Daenerys was all the way in Slaver's Bay; it would certainly take time for the letter to arrive and even longer for a reply to get back. Assuming that the letter reached Daenerys in the first place and she actually wrote a response. Jon didn't know why he was still holding out hope for a reply. Most likely, Daenerys would be just like all the others he had tried to write to who had never answered his letters-much less brought men. But he hoped this dragon queen would be different, for her sake as much as his.

He had seen her die.

Of course, he wouldn't be able to put that in his letter, unless he wanted her advisors to think that he was planning to commit treason.

He got a final count of weapons from Tormund; which only confirmed his previous suspicions: they had nowhere near enough.

Every night, Jon attended the night fires Melisandre lit every night in the courtyard. They were becoming more and more popular as more and more of the men who had once fought for Stannis took the black. That was a small comfort at least.

"Chase away the servants of the darkness so the sun may rise again tomorrow. Give us light and heat. May the fire of your passions chase away the cold of this long and terrible winter. For the night is dark and full of terrors." Melisandre finished.

"For the night is dark and full of terrors." the black brothers muttered as they went about their nightly routine. Most of the Wall's castles were manned by at least a small garrison; other men spent their nights walking the top of the Wall itself, squinting into the night to see shadows moving in the Haunted Forest.

"Walk with me, Jon Snow." the Red Priestess said, seizing his elbow. Jon could feel the heat radiating off of her in waves, still warm from the flames of the fire. "R'hllor's chosen. There is something you must know."

Reluctantly he followed her. "What is it? Have you seen something in your fires?"

"I see many things-you holding a sword of pure light. An army of the dead covering the land. And…something rather unexpected."

"What do you mean?"

For the first time Melisandre seemed almost hesitant to disclose information. "R'hllor has sent two champions to defeat the coming night. You are Azor Ahai to be sure-but there is another who will aid your cause. It is written in the stars."

"What is?" The last thing Jon needed was more riddles.

"The Prince who was Promised."

"What is his name? Where is he?" Jon had to meet him soon so they could plan to coordinate their attacks.

Melisandre smiled-a red flash of light in the gathering darkness. "Who said anything about a him?"

There were times when Daenerys Targaryen wished that planning a conquest took just a _little_ less effort. There were times when she thought her life would just be that much easier if she could just invade Westeros on Drogon's back with Viserion and Rhaegal in formation, like Aegon and his sister Visenya and Rhaenys had over three hundred years ago. However, she needed an army-which meant she had a khalasar to organize and an army of Unsullied to split up, not to mention her numerous companies of sell swords and freemen, some of whom were more suited for battle than others. Everyone needed enough provisions to get them across the Narrow Sea and through the battle that would come after. Sometimes the logistics of it all made her head hurt-but she wouldn't leave. She'd run away once. Now she was going to stay and face the music-no matter what happened when she reached Westeros.

She was going home. She was going to reclaim the homeland that should have been hers and sit the throne that was hers by right. She should have been elated; jubilant even-and she was, of course, but she was also exhausted. She didn't want to leave Meereen, not just yet-but she didn't have a choice.

She'd been gone too long already.

"This one wishes to tell you the Unsullied are settled on their ships as instructed." Grey Worm said, shifting from foot to foot almost nervously. After being a freed man for almost four years, he still wasn't totally comfortable around her-or the world of true Meereenese culture. She didn't blame him. Most of the Unsullied were still a bit standoffish-they preferred fighting wars and dying in battle to taking wives and holding lands. Old training died hard.

She gave him her best smile. "Thank you, Grey Worm." She watched him leave to organize the last few companies. There should be enough boats for them all; the fleet she'd purchased from Braavos was more than substantial.

The Sons of the Harpy were a dim and distant memory. While she'd been gone gathering back Drogo's khalasar and proving herself a khaleesi and worthy leader of the Dothraki, Tyrion Lannister had worked his magic and managed to root out all of the militants that had once plagued her rule. Their leader had been none other than her husband, the 'honorable' Hizdahr zo Loraq-and he had quickly been put to death for treason. Now Meereen was solely and completely under her rule, but she still worried about it in her absence. Astapor had been hers too, but once she left it had crumbled. She was afraid Meereen would soon follow.

Several of her handmaidens, two Dothraki and two Meereenese were loading the last of her personal belongings onto her royal standard flying the black flag of House Targaryen. There were her rich carpets and lavish tapestries-some she planned to take with her to the Red Keep and others she would give as gifts. She figured she'd be able to win over the Martells-they had always supported the Lannisters (in fact, her sister in law Elia had been a Martell herself). Add to that her Unsullied, sell swords, horse lords, freedmen, and dragons and she thought she had a good chance against the army of the crown. The Seven Kingdoms were in disarray-the Stormlands were still ruled by weakened Baratheon forces, but they could easily be overwhelmed. The Reach was allied to the Lannisters, as was the Westerlands. The Vale of Arryn was neutral, the North was too occupied by infighting to worry about major wars one way or the other, and even the Iron Islands had expressed interest in an alliance.

She would only get one shot at reclaiming what was hers-what Viserys had lived and died for. She couldn't fail.

She stepped out onto her patio, looking over the darkened city. Down in the central plaza she could see people and animals hurrying back and forth and to and fro in the gathering dusk calling back and forth in the gravelly Ghiscari tongue. Her city would be in good hands with a committee of her most trusted advisors-headed by Missandei and Grey Worm. It had taken many sleepless nights and long conversations behind closed doors for her to come to a decision, but Tyrion had advised it and both Missandei and Grey Worm had eventually accepted their new responsibilities.

But that would require Dany to leave behind one of the only friends she had left-and one of the only people she trusted.

"Your Grace?" the woman in question asked, walking out onto the balcony as well. "It's getting late and you have much to do tomorrow. You should get some rest."

Reluctantly Dany followed her inside-though she knew she would have trouble sleeping. But it was true; she did need the rest.

She blew out the candle she always kept on her bedside as Missandei closed the window curtains for the last time. "Do you need anything else?" the soft spoken ex translator asked, surveying the room that would be hers in only a few short hours.

"No. I'll be fine. Thank you, Missandei." Her gratitude extended far beyond simple words; ever since Astapor, Missandei had always been there for her as a tireless translator and good friend-who had never betrayed her confidence. Dany would miss her dearly, but Meereen needed a kind and capable ruler-even if said ruler still wasn't truly confident in her own abilities as of yet. She needed time to come into her own, sure-but she wouldn't be alone. She would have a small council as well-and she had spent the last year being trained under Tyrion's shrewd tutelage preparing for just this opportunity. Daenerys felt Missandei would be the best choice to carry on her legacy.

Missandei nodded and closed the door, plunging the world into darkness. "Sleep well."

Dany lay awake for a long time, silently reviewing in her head the journey still to come-the passage across the Narrow Sea and the stopover in Dorne. She didn't expect to sleep; she seemed to need less and less and time went on. But as so often happens she dozed off without meaning to.

She dreamt she was in the throne room of Westeros. It was just how she had always imagined it-dominated by the large chair the Westerosians called the Iron Throne. Snowflakes drifted down from a large hole in the ruined ceiling, tangling in her blonde hair. She reached up to touch one but it melted on her fingertips with a flash of deepest cold. Then she realized the throne was ruined-cracked in two pieces, right down the middle. Blue roses littered the ground.

The scene changed to show a vast wall, stretching along the horizon for leagues and leagues. It was made of ice and glistened in the morning air, almost beautiful in its own frigid way. Suddenly, the air rang with a loud horn blast that seemed to shake the entire world in a tsunami of snow and ice. For a reason she couldn't quite explain, Dany was filled with a deep sense of dread.

The dream shifted once more to show a small bedchamber, sparingly lit and lightly furnished. A dark haired man sat behind a wooden desk, sharpening a sword made of Valyrian steel. Flames reflected in his dark eyes, though the room was cold. She felt drawn to him; he seemed familiar in a way she couldn't quite place.

"We have to face them." he said, running a finger lightly along his sword hilt. "It is our destiny."

She wanted to tell him that her destiny was to be the queen of Westeros, but no words would come.

"They will sing songs about us." he continued. "The Prince of Ice and the Queen of Fire." His eyes seemed to burn violet. "Our song will be glorious. But I cannot do this alone. I need you." The room grew colder, bone numbingly so until she couldn't feel or think…

She awoke tangled in her blankets, breathing hard, with her betrayer's face burned into her mind-along with the name Jon Snow. Morning sunlight streamed through the blinds, cris crossing her bed with rays of yellow light. _Just a dream_ she thought, trying to convince her heart rate to return to normal. But she knew it wasn't. Not really.

Just then, the door opened and one of her new handmaidens walked in. Dany hadn't quite learned their names yet; this one had long brown hair, warm brown skin, and a joke for almost every occasion. "Khaleesi, are you ready to leave?"

"Yes." She got out of bed and crossed to her closet to pick out her final dress from the few that weren't packed away for her journey across the sea. The rest would go to Missandei. When that was finished and she had braided her hair as usual, she broke her fast in the garden above the city for the last time. Drogon had made it his new home; he was sleeping in a patch of sunlight and gave a little grunt when he saw her pass as though in acknowledgement. He was growing rapidly-soon he would be too big for the garden proper. She ran a hand down his scales as she looked out at Slaver's Bay and the contingent of ships waiting to take her and her army home. Targaryen banners were being raised to every ship, sparkling in the light of the sun.

Today she would free her other two dragons, Viserion and Rhaegal, for the first time in two years. Though they were smaller than Drogon, they were still very impressive-and she would need all three of them for her conquest. There was so much to do-she couldn't worry about a dream as well.

Her first stop was the catacombs, along with a brigade of palace security at her small council's insistence. She waited impatiently as one of them fumbled with a key ring and opened the heavy metal door charred and dented by months of dragon fire.

"Your Grace," one of the captains asked as he stared into the darkness of the pit, "it has been a long time since these dragons were unchained. Are you certain they will still listen to you?"

"They are my children. They would never hurt me." She was given the ring of keys and stepped into the darkness without fear.

Viserion roared loudly, flames lighting up the dark. Dany bit her lip; they were half wild. She felt rather than saw Rhaegal moved to stand above her, chirping curiously as he sniffed her outstretched palm. His breath was warm on her hand as she scratched beneath the scales on his neck the way she knew he liked it. He was bigger than she was by now and able to kill her with just one breath, but she wasn't afraid. "Come." She said, pointing to the sheep carcass the guards had laid in the dungeon's doorway at her request. "We're all going home."  
For a moment the dragons didn't follow her, just watching her leave and breathing heavily. Finally, she began to hear the soft sound of nails scratching tile as they crossed the dungeon chambers and into the hallway, which was littered with more animal corpses. Taking it carefully, room by room and step by step, they finally emerged into the harsh sunlight of the Meereenese dawn.

Almost instantly, Viserion and Rhaegal took to the air to meet their brother, their loud roars shaking the ground as they took wing. All around her, people looked to the sky with a mixture of fear and awe on their faces, but the dragons didn't even seem to notice them. They soared into the distance, probably to hunt. Dany knew they would be back before dark, but she still worried about them more than she should.

Tyrion Lannister, one of her most trusted advisors, fell into step beside her. "Jhago is acting up again."

Dany sighed. She'd thought she had made the terms of their agreement more than clear. "Tell him the ships are necessary."

"He seems convinced he can ride that destrier of his all the way to King's Landing."

"Tell him if he refuses to cooperate, his braid will be cut and he will be exiled into the Red Wastes." Jhago's braid wasn't nearly as long as Drogo's had been; it was nothing to be proud of.

"Duly noted." They reached the docks; a mess of activity even at this early hour. The dragons roared overhead, tearing apart the morning air. "Times are changing-I never thought there would be a time when seeing dragons in the sky would be a common occurrence."

"The time of the stag is over. The dragon will rise again from the ashes." _She_ was the dragon-it was her destiny, her shield, everything she was and would ever be. "And you are convinced we can win over the Martells?"

"Yes. The Red Viper's bastard daughters are clamoring for war on King's Landing. If you know what to offer them, how to stir up bad blood….they will fight for you. The North is engaged in nothing short of a civil war, the Vale is entirely neutral, and-thanks to my meddling sister-the Lannisters and Tyrells are too busy trying to cement their claims to the throne to worry about invaders. We should face little opposition."

Daenerys nodded. "Assuming the voyage goes as planned." She still wasn't entirely convinced it would.

"As long as you brought more than salt pork and half rotten fish to survive on. Are you sure you wouldn't like to spend the voyage on deck with us peasants?"

"I would like to…but I must be with my children at least part of the time." She couldn't explain how she felt whenever she rode dragon back-everything seemed smaller and less important. She felt like she was part of the wind and sky; a creature belonging solely to the air. "I want to conqueror Westeros the way my ancestors did."

Daario Naharis ran to join her. "The Stormcrows have settled in. We were all waiting for your signal."

Daenerys nodded. "Tell our captains to perform their final checks."

Daario nodded, grinning cockily as he brushed a stray lock of dark hair out of his eyes and plunged into the hustle and bustle of the marketplace. Dany watched him go-and her line of sight didn't go unnoticed by Tyrion. "When you land in Westeros, the people will expect you to take a husband of Westerosian descent."

"The dragon must have three heads." Daario was wonderful for nights of heated passion, when all she wanted was a man to kiss her senseless, but he could ever be anything more than a paramour of sorts. He wasn't meant to be tied down to a woman, even if he was of noble birth-he was wild, untamed, and free.

"We should go to the ships. The captains are growing restless."

The soon arrived at the three royal standards: _Vhagar, Meraxes,_ and _Balerion._ Each was lavishly decorated and brightly painted, filled with treasures of the Far East. Jorah Mormont greeted her on the deck of _Balerion_ with a letter written on heavy parchment that bore an unfamiliar seal. She still didn't trust Jorah completely-in fact, she was convinced she never fully would-but he seemed to have changed and she had eventually been coaxed into giving him a second chance. "This arrived for you, Khaleesi."

She examined the note carefully. _Jon Snow._ She'd never heard of him before-in fact, the Night's Watch had never really crossed her radar. But the more she read the note over and examined the messy scrawl of his signature, the more she became convinced that Jon was the man in her dream the previous night-if indeed that was what it had been.

She felt Jorah's hand on her elbow. "Are you all right?" She didn't realize her skin had gone even paler than normal.

 _It is urgent we meet as soon as possible._ Maybe it was.

Then again, maybe this was all a trap. "Who is this Jon Snow?"

"The bastard son of Eddard Stark." Tyrion explained. "Last I heard he was heading north to the Night's Watch. A decent lad, if a bit mopey. Not a bad ally."

Dany desperately wanted to rip up his note. He was bringing up things she didn't want to think about-not to mention Stark blood ran in his veins. The Starks had aided the Baratheons in killing her family.

But she couldn't help remembering her dream-of the Wall falling and the horn ringing through the air, loud and long and full of fear. If what he was writing was true and their enemies were real…

She realized she had zoned out again-which meant it was time to leave. Daario ran back with his checklist; everything was ready.

Dany nodded and took a deep breath. "Very well. Raise the banners."

"Watch yourself, Khaleesi." Jorah reminded her for the millionth time. "It wouldn't do for you to fall and throw off all our plans."

"I'll be fine." She grabbed the blanket and headed to an empty field out of the city and away from prying eyes-her prearranged meeting spot-and waited for Drogon to arrive. It took a while, but finally the dragon came flying in on huge leathery wings and landed before her. She carefully slipped the blanket onto his broad back before she climbed on top of it. Once she'd begun taking her dragon rides almost daily, she'd quickly realized that riding a dragon was nothing like riding a horse. Drogon's scales scraped at her thighs and ripped them raw while she'd lost quite a few fingernails gripping onto his scales. She'd eventually decided to make a pair of gloves to protect her hands. She'd also briefly considered having a saddle made, but Drogon was no common horse and they both felt he deserved better than such. The control she had over where she wanted to go was spotty at best. Usually Drogon would listen to her, but sometimes he would go only where he wanted to go. Usually, Dany didn't mind either way. She knew he was always looking after her. As it happened, she rode side saddle a lot as that seemed to cut off a lot of the more unsavory side effects.

"Fly." she said softly once she was seated. Drogon took off in a flurry of wings and Dany watched the city shrink below her for the last time. Missandei was standing on the pyramid balcony, waving a solemn goodbye. Dany waved back, remembering the quiet and shy slave girl she had met in Astapor. Sure, Missandei was still shy but she had a good heart and a kind disposition. Her dragon flew even higher, until the streets of Meereen, the royal fleet, and even the tops of the pyramids were nothing but tiny dots below them. She had plenty of time to mull over the situation at hand.

They flew for hours, past mile upon mile of green forest, blue river, and yellow desert. Occasionally they would pass a city, where people would look up at them in confusion as they soared past. After a while, Viserion and Rhaegal joined them to act as a rear guard. It was quiet up there, high above the world and all of its problems.

Finally, after around six hours of flight, the dragons began to lag until eventually Dany decided they had flown enough. She gestured Drogon downwards, with the other dragons following close behind. Three huge wooden platforms had been erected behind the royal standards for the dragons to share when they weren't flying; Dany tried to monitor them closely to be sure they didn't cause trouble but she needn't have worried. Most people left the dragons alone and they didn't attack unless provoked.

"We made good time." Tyrion said as both Daario and Jorah rushed to help her dismount. "Jhago is sated-for now. We hope to make the crossing in less than three weeks."

"They will see us coming." Dany said as her handmaidens prepared a dinner of figs and melons for her to sup on.

"They won't be able to stop us if they do."

An idea was forming in her head, tantalizing and quite possibly insane. But the more she thought about how it would never work, the more she wanted to try. "You say it will take a few weeks to cross?"

"Yes, at the rate we're going-assuming we don't meet with disaster."

"If I decided to…go to the Wall, just for a day, and then fly back….will I be missed?"

"You can't possibly be thinking-"

She was hesitant to share her dreams with Tyrion-despite everything he'd done for her cause he was still a Lannister, after all-but she knew he wouldn't understand otherwise. So, reluctantly, she explained about seeing the Wall come crashing down. She didn't mention Jon.

Tyrion sighed. "Dreams are just that-dreams. The Wall hasn't fallen for a thousand years. I don't think it's about to fall now."

"This one wasn't. It was...different. I just have to make sure that everything is truly fine." She cut her advisor off before he could protest. "I will leave you in charge of the voyage. I trust you can lead my crew safely. I will be back in less than two days. You are to tell people that I am on a diplomatic mission in the North." She went back to her chambers on board _Vhagar_ and penned a quick letter before she could change her mind.

 _To Jon Snow,_

 _After carefully reading and reviewing your recent letter, I have decided to come to the Wall and meet with you privately in order to determine whether or not the Wights you speak of are a true threat. I will require sufficient lodging for myself and three dragons for one night, at which time I will decide how best to contribute to your cause-if indeed I find your cause to be worthy of my soldiers._

 _I look forward to speaking with you. We have much to discuss._

 _Sincerely,_

 _Queen Daenerys Stormborn Targaryen, of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Queen of Meereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains, and Mother of Dragons._

She sent the letter off with the first available raven, hoping Jon Snow would reach it in time.

If there was a threat to her kingdom, no matter how far-fetched, she deserved to know about it.

 **Update as of July 12th, 2016: I've worked on combining some chapters together to make them a little bit more even. I haven't really changed anything about the narrative though; no worries there.**

 **Review, follow, and favorite! Thanks for reading!**


	2. First Meeting

**Disclaimer: See Chapter 1**

 **Enjoy!**

The letter was received with a flurry of anticipation and expectation in Castle Black. The queen would be arriving on the back of a dragon-a feat that had not been accomplished in thousands of years, ever since the visit of Queen Alysanne and her mount Silverwing hundreds of years ago. Because of this, no one knew quite how to prepare for the coming of not one but three almost full grown dragons.

"What do dragons eat?" Dolorous Edd Tollet asked as he looked through a list of the food the Night's Watch had at its disposal.

Jon wracked his brain, trying to remember what he had learned from years of careful tutelage under Winterfell's maester, Luwin. "Meat, I think. Freshly charred. As much as you can spare."

The night fires were converted into bonfires for charring meat while a few of the builders spent precious daylight building an enormous shelter against the side of the Wall for the dragons to take refuge in when the sun went down. Stannis's old rooms in the King's Tower were cleaned and scoured of all the previous king's belongings in preparation for the dragon queen's arrival. And still Jon worried it would not be enough. Daenerys Targaryen was one of the only hopes they had left. If they lost her support-or failed to gain it, for that matter-Jon didn't know what else they could do or who else they could turn to.

"Do you think she's as beautiful as all the tales say?" one of their new recruits, Satin, asked almost longingly.

Jon sighed as he ate another spoon toful of one of Three Fingered Hobb's increasingly watery bowls of soup. "None of you will talk to her unless it is absolutely necessary-and no one will be going anywhere near the King's Tower." He'd hand-picked the guards who would stand watch outside the Tower by night. They were loyal to him and he trusted them utterly and completely.

Satin raised his hands in mock surrender. "I was not suggesting anything immoral, Lord Snow. I was only wondering…"

"Some tales are true, some are quite exaggerated. I have not met Daenerys myself." All he knew came from soldiers and sailors from half a dozen homelands who would lie about anything if they were paid the right amount of coin. He didn't mention that he had seen her before; he hadn't told anyone about his dream, even Melisandre.

Finally, the day of Daenerys's coming arrived. Jon knew something was different as soon as he opened his eyes. Castle Black was practically buzzing with excitement. Men walked with a new spring in their step while the final touches were put on both the King's Tower and the dragon pens, if one could call it that.

"You'd better be bloody well sure this is worth it, Snow." Three Fingered Hobb said as he set aside another side of ribs for the fire. "If these dragons eat as much as you seem to think they will, there won't be anything left for us."

Melisandre pulled him aside soon after he broke his fast. "My fires are difficult to read." she confessed as they walked the top of the Wall. At least some things would never change, no matter who the ruler of the Seven Kingdoms happened to be. He would always have this view of acres and acres of desolate land even as the years passed and the political landscape changed again and again.

"Have you seen anything more about the coming battle?"

"I see only shadows."

This worried Jon more than he cared to admit. Even if he didn't exactly believe in the Lord of Light-he had always worshipped the old gods of the North, though they never seemed to answer any of his prayers-but he couldn't deny that the visions the red priestess saw in her fires always seemed to manifest themselves in one way or another. With nothing to fall back on, he felt he was wandering into the future unprepared. Anything could happen-and in the present climate that boded well for no one.

"And you're sure she part of this prophecy?"

"All the signs are right. She, like you, has been reborn from fire. She has a role to play in what will come, as we all do."

Jon decided to ask the question that had been hovering at the back of his mind for more than a week. "Will she die?"

Melisandre's voice was expressionless, hard as ice. "I cannot see her fate-or your own."

"And what must we do to appease the White Walkers?"

"Make a sacrifice of blood and fire. Forge Lightbringer anew, and wake dragons from stone."

Jon was used to riddles by now. He didn't even ask for clarification.

Just then he heard one of the Night's Watch men blow his horn four times-the hastily arranged signal for dragons. Immediately a hush fell over Castle Black as hundreds of men turned their eyes skyward and waited to witness history.

And then Jon saw a flash of green far in the distance, as though of light reflecting off scales.

Three shapes materialized near the horizon-though they were no more than dots at first, they grew larger and larger as they approached. Three there were, just as the letter had said. One had scales of deep black, the color of pitch and darkest midnight. Another was a golden cream color, like the golden dragons used as coinage in most of the country. The last was green, a deep shade of emerald-like the deep green grass that surrounded the godswood in high summer.

And riding the black dragon sat a small figure, commanding the massive beast totally without fear. Her blonde hair hung loose and flowing, streaming behind her in the wind as she rode. She wore a dress of light blue, a cape of the same color fanning out from her shoulders. Other than that, she wore no other protective covering against the cold; Jon marveled at the fact that she wasn't shivering.

The dragons landed one by one, in a neat formation: the black one landed first, followed by the yellow and green a few steps behind. The woman swung down from her almost mythical mount with the sort of ease that only comes after lots and lots of diligent practice. Castle Black was completely silent for the first time in Jon's memory.

Finally, Bowen Marsh nodded his head in a sign of respect while not overdoing it, as the Night's Watch swore no fealty in any king or queen. "My lady."

Daenerys nodded carefully. "I apologize for not giving more notice, but desperate times call for desperate measures." She surveyed the crowd of men that had turned out to witness the dragons' coming whit a careful and measured eye. Jon was struck with a sudden certainty that this was the sort of woman you didn't cross, if you knew what was good for you. "I have received you summons."

"We are most pleased to make your acquaintance and that of your…" He glanced toward the dragons as if unsure what to call them.

"Dragons." Jon supplied. "My name is Jon Snow. I am the one who wrote to you and asked you to come." He stepped forward and the crowd parted around him to let him pass. He couldn't help feeling that he was the one who had brought all of this down upon the heads of the Night's Watch. If anything were to happen while the dragons were staying on premises, he knew he would feel personally responsible.

"I know." She replied coolly.

"I am glad you came. I did not expect an answer." The Night's Watch had thought him crazy to expect help from a foreign queen-for a while, he'd been convinced he was going insane as well. But then the letter had come and everything had changed.

"Is the somewhere we can talk privately?" she asked. "My dragons have flown a long distance today and they will need to be properly fed and cared for."

"I will see to it, my lady." Satin said, hurrying off to take care of the dragons. Slowly, the crowd dispersed as the other black brothers went back to their numerous tasks and Jon led their royal guest to the King's Tower. She was a Targaryen in every sense of the word-in looks, actions, and even bearing.

"These will be your rooms." Jon said, opening the wooden front door with a small flourish. "I trust they will be to your liking?"

She nodded distantly. "I'm sure they will suffice for such a short stay. Now, would you please tell me exactly why I am here when I could be crossing the sea with the rest of my allies?"

"Everything I wrote in that letter was true. The Wights are not imaginary. They are not children's stories. They are the true enemy-and the Watch cannot defeat them alone."

It didn't seem she had heard him as she took a bottle of Arbor wine off the shelf the Night's Watch had provided for her and poured herself a small glass. "It warms me up." she said by way of explanation. Goose bumps were beginning to stand out against her pale flesh.

"Are you cold?"

"Not terribly. I have never seen snow before. I did not know what to prepare for."

For all that Daenerys Targaryen was-a queen, a conqueror, and a mother of dragons-she was also a girl just like him-younger than him, actually-who had never known the winter before. Sure, she was a tentative ally at best-she could easily turn on him, he knew nothing about her, and there were moments when she seemed as wild as her dragons-but right now she was just cold.

He could help with that. "I'll be right back." He left for his own chambers, sure he had a fur or two he could spare. The Wall was bitterly cold at night-she would need more than her dress if she didn't want to freeze. As quickly as he could he grabbed a few extra furs and took them back to the King's Tower. "Try these."

She nodded by way of thanks and tried one on almost tentatively. "So, this is what a northern winter is like."

"Actually, you've arrived on one of our warmer days." Two months ago, it had been so cold that anyone foolish enough to leave their respective towers froze to death instantly. Their breath had hung in the air like icicles and even the night fires had gathered less of a cult following.

They lapsed into silence for a moment until Jon tried to introduce the topic of the White Walkers again. "Have you considered our case?"

"You haven't explained it very thoroughly. Why? Are you afraid to talk about it?" Her eyes were liquid fire, crackling and hissing with a light all their own. They were captivating, enchanting…even intoxicating.

"No. I just don't want you to leave before you've heard the full story."

"I promise to listen to everything you wish to tell me, no matter how farfetched it seems to be." The expression on her face suggested that she expected it would be very farfetched indeed.

Jon nodded and began to tell the whole story-from the missing rangers and the reports of dead men walking in the Haunted Forest to the wildlings, the Horn of Winter, the Night's King, and his own resurrection. Every so often he glanced at Dany to be sure she was still following. The expression on her face was impossible to discern.

"The Wall will fall." she said once Jon had brought them up to the present day. Her voice was as hard as the icicles outside.

Jon stiffened. "Where did you hear that?"

She turned those eyes to him again, their violet irises seeming to bore into his very soul and strip it bare. "I saw it happen in a dream. You were in that same dream as well."

He wondered how that could be possible, when he had also dreamed about her. "A red priestess named Melisandre often speaks of two different prophecies dating back to ancient times. She seems to believe in someone named Azor Ahai reborn while the Southerners speak of a Prince that was Promised."

"I know. I have heard the tales."

He was hesitant to continue; there was quite a difference between hearing the Night's Watch shout praises to the Lord of Light around their night fires and actually admitting you were the fulfillment of an ancient prophecy. "How did you come by your dragons?"

"They were given to me when they were just eggs and I hatched them."

"How?"

"I used the flames of my husband's funeral pyre and I walked into the flames with the eggs."

"Tell me more."

She looked like she really didn't want to, but eventually she continued in a quieter tone of voice. "I walked into the flames, but I wasn't nervous. I had no doubt that I would walk out the other side. And as it turns out, I did-with three baby dragons as well."

"What if that wasn't all that happened that night?"

She was sitting ramrod straight, clutching her wine glass so tightly her knuckles were tinged with white. "What are you suggesting?"

"We can be heroes."

For a second she was expressionless, her fingers tangled in the fur of whatever animal had given its life to keep them warm. "There's no such thing as heroes."

"We can reinvent the word."

"I can't trust you."

"I'm asking you to trust me in this one fact. Once the White Walkers have been defeated, you never have to see me again. We will go our separate ways and never look back. But if we don't stop the army of the dead, everyone in Westeros will perish. I can't let that happen-and neither can you, I don't think."

Daenerys sighed. "Assuming I did believe you, you couldn't have caught me at a worse time. I happen to be in the middle of a conquest that I am not able to postpone. I've waited too long as it is. I may be able to spare some garrisons to populate the Wall, but I cannot be a savior on top of all of that." Her tone was clipped and professional.

Jon knew it was over. He nodded and stood up, glad that at least he would get some new troops. That was better than nothing, in any case. This hadn't all been a waste of both their time. "I understand. If you need anything, there are guards outside your tower who will be happy to serve you." He was almost at the door when she called him back.

"Is the view from the top of the Wall as impressive as people say it is?"

"Yes. It's beautiful, especially at this time of night." Standing on top of the Wall felt like standing on top of the world-it still took Jon's breath away even after all this time. "Would you like to see it for yourself?"

~FAS~

Jon had to pick between two evils-the stairs and the winch. On one hand, the stairs hadn't been salted in days as the black brothers were trying to conserve what little they had left for their remaining meat. The last thing he needed-the absolute last-was for their guest to slip on one of those stairs and fall to her death. On the other hand, the winch was always a gamble.

He took one look at her boots and decided they had no traction-or at least not enough to be effective. That left the winch.

The journey upwards passed mostly in silence. Jon stood on one side of the small compartment, busying himself by looking at anything other than the woman on the other side. She was beautiful, that much was true-but she was also dangerous, like flames. When he chanced a glance up at her, her fingers were digging into the wood of the winch as the ground grew smaller and smaller below them. Every so often a roar from a dragon would shake the night but the queen didn't seem bothered so he tried not to worry about it either.

They were both extremely happy to reach the top of the Wall in one piece. Dusk had fallen, reflecting off the huge ice blocks in shades of deepest blacks and blues. Far in the distance, the sun dipped below the horizon and the wall became flecked with all the colors of the sunset-yellow, red, and even violet. It had an almost ethereal beauty to it that made Jon shiver from a mixture of both the cold and a strange excitement he couldn't quite place.

Out of habit, he gently placed a hand on Dany's arm. "In case you slip." he said by way of an explanation. She nodded and didn't protest.

They slowly walked the top of the Wall, past small groups of the Night's Watch who clustered near small braziers and blew on their hands in a vain effort to keep warm. They conversed in low tones, although their voices dropped even lower as the pair passed. Jon made sure to keep his steps even and steady-if he fell, he could easily take both of them over the side. The view was breathtaking as always. A world of white spread out around them on all sides-other than the Haunted Forest, of course, though even that was covered in a thin layer of snow. After a while they stopped walking and just stood in silence, watching the panoramic vista.

"It's so big." Daenerys said after a suitable amount of time had passed. It was as if something about the sheer scope of the Wall demanded whispers and reverence-perhaps because it had been around for thousands of years, since the First Men walked the Earth far before the Seven Kingdoms were even an idea and would be standing long after the last black brother took his final breath. It was total and absolute in its majesty.

"I know. It's easy to pretend that this is all the world consists of-no Southron lords and no Iron Throne. The world is simply wind, snow, and the Wall-the way things have been for thousands of years."

"My older brother Viserys once told me about Brandon the Builder. Is that a true story?"

"Probably not. The Wall will always remain a mystery. No one will ever truly know what lies within its walls. Even the Night's Watch doesn't know all of its secrets and we never will. All we can do is patrol its surface and not probe too deeply into what lies beneath."

"What do you think lies beneath?"

He didn't even need to consider his answer. "Ghosts and corpses that will never see the light of day."

"I've seen ghosts before. Just a couple, on separate occasions…but I know they exist. "

"In a way, I'm fighting a ghost army-the shadows of men who aren't dead but wish they were." He indicated the Haunted Forest, pale and gloomy in the harsh light of the rising moon. "Sometimes you can see them moving in the trees on clear night. They never come very close, but we all know they're there. We've lost dozens of rangers to them over the years-either they came back as dead men or they never came back at all. I don't know how to go about waging a war-much less a war against ghosts. My half brother Robb would know what to do-he was always the fighter. If things were different I would turn to him for advice…but Robb is dead. He was murdered at a wedding, while under protection of guest right."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Sometimes I think I never should have taken the black. Could I have changed things if I joined Robb's army? Would things be different now? Would I still have a family?"

He felt Daenerys touch his hand lightly-barely enough to be substantial, but he felt it just the same. "I've learned that it is impossible to change the past, no matter how badly you want to. It's not worth dwelling on.

He nodded. "Have you ever had a moment where you could almost see the many different paths laid out for you and all the different choices you could have made?"

"That night on the funeral pyre. I could have stepped down. The tribe would have looked after me and I could be there still, out of harm's way. But I would still be wondering where I would be if I had simply taken a risk." She looked out at the night. The temperature practically leapt down the thermometer in increments of ten or fifteen degrees. "I wish I could help, truly. But I have my own castle to conqueror."

And then Jon got the most insane idea he'd ever had, standing on top of the world with frigid air numbing his brain and his ability to make sound decisions. "What if I told you that I could win you the north to help your conquest?"

She seemed interested at least. "And what would that entail?"

"I need just a day or two more-and at least one dragon."

"What do you intend to do?"

"Rescue my sister. She is the last Stark alive. All our bannermen will rally to her. If she joins the Targaryen forces they will fight for you as well."

She was silent for a moment, turning the prospect over in her mind and examining it for loopholes. Finding none, she nodded once and even smiled-just a little bit, of course. "You have yourself a deal-but I would like to add a condition to our agreement."

"And what would that be?"

"I want to help."

"If you don't want to come, I'm sure we can find a way to take back the castle ourselves."

"I want to come."

Jon sighed as he worked his way through the busy hive of activity that was Castle Black in the midmorning. He'd been hoping that a good night's sleep would be enough to bring the dragon queen to her senses, but he was beginning to realize that Daenerys was nothing if not stubborn.

"How are you planning to use my dragons if I am not present? They listen to me-and even then I cannot trust they will do exactly as I say. If you try to force them to do things they don't want to do, you will find your endeavors will generally not succeed."

He stopped walking and turned to face her; he barely felt the small stings of snowflakes as they landed on his exposed skin. "What are you planning to tell your advisors when you don't return when they expect you to?"

"I'll have Viserion take a message back to Tyrion. He seems to trust him more than he trusts most others."

"Tyrion _Lannister_ is one of your advisors?"

She sighed when she noticed his awed look. "Tyrion has been a loyal advisor and proved himself a capable ruler in my stead. I spared his life once and he has never given me any reason or occasion to doubt his loyalties." And that was that.

Small groups of men stopped what they were doing to watch them pass. A couple stared after Jon with what could only be jealousy but he ignored them. He could only imagine what kind of a pair they made together. But his public image was the very last of his worries.

Over the past twelve hours, Jon had managed to pull together as many of Stannis's army of hillsmen he could to plan another attack on Winterfell. None of them were that excited about the idea of hiking through yet more snow on a march that could ultimately lead to their untimely deaths, but the idea of dragons on their side helped to boost their morale considerably. It was easier than Jon would have thought to sway them; the men had signed up for battle and duty so they could die heroes' deaths and give their families one less mouth to feed. A coward's retreat was not exactly the way they wanted to be remembered.

Just then Melisandre hurried up to them, her red robes swaying. "My queen." she said, bowing low. "I trust Lord Snow has brought you up to date on all recent events."

"He may have told me a thing or two." Dany replied nonchalantly. "Forgive me. I don't believe I ever learned your name."

"I am Melisandre, a priestess from the shadowlands of Asshai and a servant of the Lord of Light."

Daenerys seemed to focus on word only. "Witch." she said softly.

"I have been called that and worse, my lady."

"Are the tales true then? About the shadow binders and the black magic that can kill men as easily as it aids them?"

"That and more. Much more. Will you take a cup of tea with me later? Perhaps after the night fires? We have much to discuss."

That seemed entirely reasonable to Jon. He had been meaning to meet with Melisandre anyway to see what her fires had to say about Ramsay and Sansa. He had to know if they were walking into a trap.

But Daenerys's face hardened until it became a mask of solid ice. "No. I don't believe that will be necessary. Now, if you'll excuse me I have business of my own to attend to." She turned on her heel and left, her new fur cape billowing behind her in the cold wind.

Jon and the priestess exchanged a look.

"She has to embrace her destiny." Melisandre said in a low voice. "Everything is for naught if she doesn't."

Jon sighed and went to go find her.

She hadn't gone far; she stood to one side of Castle Black, in an open field where the brothers occasionally sparred or let their horses graze. The gold dragon was with her, waiting patiently as she affixed a small piece of parchment to one of the scales on its back. As he approached she whispered something to the dragon in a language he didn't have a prayer of understanding and Viserion flew off in a rush of wind. Within seconds he was nothing but a dot far away on the edge of the horizon, gleaming in the late morning sunlight.

"Where is he going?" Jon asked, watching him leave.

"To find Tyrion. He knows what to do. He'll take his time with it-hunt a little, perhaps-but everything in good time. He will come back soon."

"You trust him a lot."

She looked at him strangely. "I am his mother. He would never betray me."

Jon wished he had her confidence. "Why won't you talk with Melisandre?"

"I don't trust her-and I can't understand why you seem to believe everything she says so readily."

"Everything she predicts seems to have a strange way of coming to pass."

"She's a witch." She looked away, tracing circles in the dirty snow with the tip of her boot. "I knew a witch once. She said she could help me-but eventually she ended up betraying me and destroyed almost everything I cared about."

Jon felt a shiver run down his spine. Melisandre had given him no reason to doubt her loyalties, but he saw the way some of the Night's Watch looked at her. They didn't trust her-and neither did he, if he was being honest with himself. Not fully. But she was a valuable ally-that wasn't something he could easily debate. "She says she has prophetic visions."

"Do you believe her?"

He shrugged. "I've seen her do things I can't easily explain. Will you talk to her? Just once?"

She changed the subject easily. "Is that Valyrian steel?" She gestured to the sword that was a permanent fixture on his belt.

Jon pulled It out so he could see it. He kept the sword in pristine condition, especially after the attack on Hardhome. He never knew when he might need it. "Yes. Its name is Longclaw."

"A noble name for a noble sword." They stood in silence for a minute or two, watching the black brothers go about their business and spar in the courtyard. The air rang with the clash of steel on steel, again and again. Jon almost wished he could be among them, teaching them how to fight. At least that he knew how to do. Diplomacy was out of his league-especially reasoning with a queen who could actually play the Game of Thrones. "Have you used it much?"

"A few times."

"Teach me."

He looked up in surprise-and she automatically looked down, embarrassed. "Not with a sword, of course. Something smaller-a dagger perhaps. I've heard tales about this Ramsay Bolton. The things he does…I just want to be careful."

Jon had heard the same tales. "If you would like me to."

"I hear you've been teaching the new recruits lately. They seem to be doing well. You must be doing something right."

Jon ducked his head, feeling a flush color the back of his neck. "It's not like that. I'm not like that."

She laughed a high, clear laugh. "Than what are you like, Lord Snow?"

"Call me Jon." It didn't seem right for a queen to address him as a lord.

"Very well, Jon." She trapped him with those eyes, pure and violet. "What are you thinking about?"

He quickly ran through a list of potential answers. He worried about the White Walkers, the Wildlings, his less-than-organized-army, the two dragons still prowling the skies and hunting for food, an ancient prophecy, the loyalties of his men, and the blonde haired…enigma standing before him. "Many things. At the moment, I'm considering the fact that it seems to have gotten even colder than it was yesterday. I didn't know that was possible."

"Neither did I. But then again, this is the first time I've seen snow. It takes a little getting used to."

"Did you sleep well?"

"Mostly. What about you?"

"Not as well as I would have liked." His dreams were plagued with snow, ice, and the long dead walking. "Now, about Melisandre…"

She looked almost pained so Jon changed subjects quickly. "I'll teach you how to use a dagger and then we'll talk."

Daenerys didn't say anything for a few minutes, turning the possibility over in her mind. Finally she nodded slowly. "How soon can we start?"

"Is right now convenient?"

~FAS~

Jon managed to clear the armory for a couple hours for their lesson.

The armory was filled with all kinds of weapons-swords, axes, pikes, bows, and daggers of every shape, size, and description. But Jon breezed past all of those, selecting obsidian daggers for both himself and Dany. "Is this too big?"

"It's perfect." It was small enough to be stored in her boot or in the lining of her dresses-but it was also tough enough to slip through even the tiniest of chinks in enemy armor. She loved it immediately.

They started with the basics-with basic grips and strikes. Jon always demonstrated first and Dany would copy him while he carefully watched to ensure she was doing everything correctly. He was a very patient teacher. She knew almost nothing about hand to hand combat-she'd always left that sort of thing to her guards. But Jon didn't seem to mind that she made mistakes; he was always able to point out her errors in a way that sounded neither impatient nor demeaning and he was more than willing to help her improve.

Jon watched as she carefully parried one of his strikes and nodded resolutely. "I think we're ready to spar. I'm going to attack and you're going to attempt to keep me away." he explained.

Dany nodded, going over the list of techniques she'd learned over the past two hours. All the foot movements and hand techniques seemed to blur into one as she waited for him to attack.

She didn't know who she'd been expecting to meet when she reached the Wall-but it certainly hadn't been anyone like Jon Snow. He was…different. He even _looked_ cold, like he'd been chiseled straight from pure ice. He was light and dark in equal measure and he seemed to be in a perpetual state of deep thought; half the time she wondered if he was actually present.

And then there were his eyes. They were dark pools of light, but she'd noticed that sometimes-if the light hit them in the just the right fashion-they seemed to be touched by violet.

Almost like hers.

Then he was moving lightning fast, practically dancing across the distance that separated them. His knife flashed like a snake and Daenerys barely managed to parry his strike. They continued like that, weaving in and out in a sort of strange and dangerous dance.

A dance where-if they were being serious about things-one slip of the knife could result in death.

Finally Dany countered just a second too late. Jon was able to get by her defenses and press the cool metal to her throat-not enough to draw blood and certainly not enough to draw blood, but she could feel it just the same hovering in the hollow just under her neck. "I win." he whispered.

The knife felt cool against her skin as Jon removed it ever so gently, extremely careful not to so much as nick her with the blade. "You did well." he said, retreating a few feet so they could start again. "There's room for improvement of course, but that wasn't bad at all."

"I'm glad you think so. Shall we try again?"

They sparred for another hour, running through match after match and set after set. They always ended in the same way-Jon won invariably, as Daenerys had known he would, but he never gloated.

Finally it began to grow dark out and Jon began to spend more and more time sneaking glances out at the rapidly darkening hulk of Castle Black. The very first night fires were being lit. Melisandre stood before the largest of them, arms raised to the sky as she chanted in a strange and almost guttural language in a way that made Dany shiver in a way that had nothing to do with the chill.

"Is something wrong?" Jon asked her curiously, cleaning his knife out of habit.

"No. Not really." She fished for a change of subject. "Don't you ever get tired of the cold?" She'd been north of the Wall for less than a day and she was already tired of it.

Jon chuckled, lips quirking into a rare smile. "After a year or so it becomes like second nature to you. You begin to forget what the heat of the sun feels like. When you've been year almost six years, as I have, it becomes everything you know."

"It seems like having to come here would be a cruel and unusual type of punishment, but Tyrion tells me you came here willingly."

"I'm a bastard. Bastards have no place in the Seven Kingdoms-especially when your father is a lord. I took the best chance I could find. At least in the Wall, bastards can rise to high ranks. I thought I would have a chance to do something…important."

"I take it you were wrong."

"I was young and naïve. I hadn't seen how cold the world can truly be." He cleared his throat, brushing an errant strand of dark hair from his eyes. "Now you know about me but I still know next to nothing about you."

She stiffened but tried not to show it, pretending to be absorbed in the pattern of black swirls parading around the edge of her leather knife sheath. "What would you like to know?"

"Why did you instantly mistrust Melisandre?"

She was getting tired of hearing the same question over and over. She was running out of excuses. "It's all a matter of personal preference."

"No. It's something more than that. And I won't stop asking until you tell me what that is."

She wanted him to leave; for one red hot second she wanted him to walk away and never look back. But she knew he would always come back. This place was everything to him and she wouldn't be able to keep him away for long. So she sighed and reluctantly began to speak. "A long time ago I was a khaleesi of the Dothraki Sea, wife to the great Khal. One day, my husband was cut during a fight and became ill with a raging infection. I asked a witch named Mirri Maaz Duur to heal him and she agreed-but she betrayed me. She saved his life but not his spirit…and in doing so she killed the baby growing inside of me. My trueborn son."

Jon didn't say anything for a long, long while. Briefly Dany allowed it all to overwhelm her; the feelings of loss and regret she'd grown so good at concealing that it had almost become second nature. She didn't cry; she imagined herself hard and cold as stone where nothing would be able to hurt her.

"I am truly sorry." Jon said finally. "I did not realize-"

"I know. It happened years ago."

"What would your son's name have been, had you gotten the chance to know him?"

She answered without hesitation. "Rhaego. He would have been the Stallion who Mounts the World."

The silence was beginning to grow awkward. It was clear Jon was at a loss. Finally, the Black brothers began to stream toward the dining hall for what Dany could only assume was the evening meal. She hadn't realized how hungry she actually was. Sparring took a lot out of you.

"Shall we eat?" Jon asked, walking to the door and waiting for her to follow.

"As you wish-but can I ask you one last thing first?"

"Of course. What is it?" He stood framed in the doorway, a new blanket of softly falling snow beginning to cover his black cape like spun sugar.

"Could we practice again sometime?"

He gifted her with another smile. "Any time you wish, my lady."

"Call me Dany."

~FAS~

Dany ignored the stares she knew she was getting behind her back. It was her first time eating dinner in the dining hall since her arrival and it was clear the Night's Watch didn't know exactly what to think of her. She and Jon found a table together in a slightly isolated corner of the room as neither of them particularly wanted to socialize.

After a while Bowen Marsh joined them, talking a little too jovially about all the progress the Watch was making in its handling of both Wildlings and Wights. Dany listened as attentively as she could, nodding and laughing in all the right places.

"I trust everything is to your liking?" the steward asked. "Is there anything else we of the Watch can do to make your stay at Castle Black more pleasant or enjoyable?" It was uttered with the utmost sincerity but Dany knew he was lying. They wanted the dragons gone as soon as possible.

"That won't be necessary. Lord Snow is doing an admirable job of showing me the ropes, so to speak."

Marsh's smile began to seem just the tiniest bit forced. "It pleases me to hear you say that. How much longer are you planning to stay here with us?"

"We will only need a day or two more to assemble the necessary numbers to march on Winterfell." Jon said quickly. "The Night's Watch need not be involved."

"Excellent. Melisandre has been asking for you both, as soon as is convenient." Bowen Marsh excused himself and went to sit with another larger group of rangers, just returning from a ranging on the outskirts of the Haunted Forest. They were covered in snow as they sang bawdy songs about alcohol and women in white who wondered the night looking for their long-dead families. Dany wouldn't have been surprised if the tales were true. The Wall was an ancient place and filled with old magic, even she could see that. And she was willing to bet everything that not all of it was helpful.

"Are you going to talk to her?" Dany asked as soon as he was out of earshot.

"Yes. She sees things in her fires that have a strange way of coming true. She'll help us coordinate our attack. Will you come?"

"I don't think so."

"Melisandre is not like the witch you know. She lives to serve the Lord of Light and the Lord of Light only. She's the only one I know who can tell us what all these prophecies and ancient stories really mean."

"I don't know, Jon."

He wouldn't let up. "Come once and I'll never ask you again. Please."

She tried not to roll her eyes. "Fine. Once. But I can leave the meeting whenever I want to."

"Of course."

"And I have to do something first."

~FAS~

Jon accompanied her as far as the edge of Castle Black's ground. No one knew how the dragons would react to him and Dany wasn't willing to gamble his life. Yet he still watched her leave, from a safe distance. It was starting to seem like he fancied himself her chaperone, following her like a shadow.

When would he learn that she could take care of herself?

The dragons hadn't yet returned from their hunting and their enclosure was cold and empty. She took a moment to make sure they had sufficient food and bedding before she left again. She would try again later; they would be back later. There hadn't been any casualties today; she hoped they could keep that record during the rest of their stay. She wasn't planning to stay long; not only did she have a conquest but something about the Wall felt wrong. It was too cold, too remote.

She spent a moment just standing in the middle of the structure, sheltered from the wind and snow, waiting for her children to return. Sometimes she felt like they were the only ones she could fully trust.

Finally Jon began to wend his way over, seeing there was no danger. "Are you ready to go?" he asked, glancing up at the sky warily every few seconds.

She nodded as the sky remained clear. Yes, her children meant everything to her, but she had other duties as well.

She couldn't let herself forget that-not that the possibility was particularly likely as long as she was here. "Yes. Let's go."

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	3. Myth and Reality

**I'm going to repost this chapter because I forgot to add something in my first version of the author's note regarding the legend. Same chapter, just a few extra sentences providing a little more explanation that I forgot to add this morning. So, if you've already read the new chapter don't think that you missed anything.**

 **Anyway, there's obviously a lot of myth and legend in Westeros and I had trouble finding a full story that incorporated all the different so called heroes. In the interest of the story I combined a couple of different stories from both the book series and the World of Ice and Fire. It seems like everyone seems to have their own version of the Long Night that differs slightly from everyone else's depending on their religion and location and things like that. There could be something that I forgot about-it's a really dense series, after all-so I apologize in advance if anything isn't completely in canon continuity. **

**Thank you for all the reviews, follows, and favorites! You guys are awesome :) Keep them coming!**

 **Now that there's been a little bit of exposition, I'm going to start adding in other characters (as I did for the second part of this chapter) although Jon and Dany are still going to be the main focus of the story.**

 **Disclaimer: See Chapter 1**

 **I think those are all the new announcements. Enjoy!**

Melisandre was waiting for them back in her study. It seemed like the kind of place a witch would inhabit; several candles burned on the windowsill, throwing the room's dark corners into constant shadow. A fire burned in the grate, although these were no ordinary flames: they burned an intense orange and yellow and seemed to almost whisper in the dim light. Dany rubbed her eyes; she was more tired than she'd thought.

"Take a seat." The priestess gestured to two chairs on the opposite side of the room. "Would either of you like some tea?"

"No thank you." Dany replied, while Jon simply shook his head. "What have you called us here to discuss?"

"How we are going to save the world from eternal frozen damnation. Now, the prophecies speak of a mystical sword called Lightbringer as I'm sure you know-a sword made of fire. Unfortunately, as it would appear, not just any sword can be used for such a purpose."

"Where do you suggest we find a sword like that?" Jon replied calmly. He sounded like he was completely feeding into the woman's stories-like he truly thought he was Azor Ahai.

Then again, he was probably accustomed to seeing all sorts of strange things this far north.

"Perhaps we need to go back further-to the original Long Night long ago in the Age of Heroes. Of course, what we know of this event has long been distorted by numerous retellings recounted by many people who thought they knew what happened when they truly knew nothing at all. Even the Maesters at the Citadel know little and less, though you would find them hard pressed to admit it. However, the Lord of Light had shown me things He has not seen fit to reveal to any of his other servants.

"The Long Night came after an especially long summer-decades of fertile harvests and children who grew healthy and strong due to a surplus of food and wealth. It was a very good time, to be sure-but good times don't last forever.

"Even after all this time, it's unknown whether the Wights brought the cold or the cold brought the Wights. Cold winds began to creep down from the North, bringing with them ill tidings and the sweet, sickly smell of death. Westeros had grown lax in their time of peace; almost no one was prepared when the snow and frigid cold came. And after them were the Wights-silent shadows that moved through the night like wraiths. They carried swords of ice that froze any mortal blade and took the life of any man foolish enough to be caught outside when the sun went down. Over the course of that long, cold winter their ranks swelled to numbers that were almost unheard of; soon they were in danger of outnumbering the people of Westeros. As their numbers grew, their daring grew as well. They attacked entire villages under the cover of darkness, animating the corpses of men, women, and children alike into soldiers of the living dead.

"Those days were short and terrible. The hours of daylight grew shorter and shorter until it seemed the sun could hardly bare to show its face at all. Babies died in the birthing bed. Crops froze in their barns. Men wandered into the woods to die. Children were born and lived their entire lives without ever feeling the caress of the sun. They were the winter children, tough and frigid as the godforsaken land they inhabited. Some thought they had been cursed by the gods. They offered sacrifice after sacrifice-sometimes sacrificing their own family members-to buy back their gods' favor but it did not matter. The gods were deaf to their pleas.

"Eventually it was decided that something had to be done before Westeros was overrun completely. There were murmurs of the Children of the Forest, an ancient race of…you might think of them as wood witches…who were said to know magic. Although they had been at war with the First Men for centuries and had since been driven from their historical range until they could be found in only the deepest forests and darkest caves, it was said that they were the only ones who knew the magic to defeat the White Walkers. At this point, the people were desperate. They were willing to try anything rather than freeze to death.

"So a lone adventurer was charged with finding the Children in their secret dwelling places. He faced many hardships and trials, but eventually this Last Hero was able to root them out and even treat with them. As it happened, the Children had been spared the worst of the Long Night hidden away in shallow caverns of rock that bordered on natural hot springs-but even they could see the threat the Walkers posed-especially to the giant white weirwood trees they used as their eyes to the natural world. So, reluctantly, in the interest of both parties the Children and First Men agreed to a truce.

"A battle was waged upon the White Walkers-the First Men and the Children against the forces of ice and snow. It was Westeros's last stand, the Battle for the Dawn. Truly, it was both the beginning and end of everything-and it was a battle like nothing which had ever been fought before.

"Up until now.

"Just when all hope seemed lost, when it seemed certain the White Walkers would win and the people of Westeros were all but spent, a hero stepped forward. He was called Azor Ahai and he desired to make a sword more powerful than any other. He crafted the best sword he could; laboring over it for thirty days and thirty nights-but when he went to temper it in water it broke completely. So Azor Ahai decided to try again, laboring for fifty days and fifty nights. This time, he captured and stabbed a lion through the heart in order to strengthen his blade but still the steel shattered.

"Finally, he tried a third time-laboring over his miracle sword for one hundred days and one hundred nights stopping neither to eat nor sleep. Finally the sword was finished-the finest of its kind and polished so that it gave off an inner light wherever it went. But Azor Ahai knew he was not yet finished. There was still one ingredient missing.

"And so he sacrificed his own wife and the thing he loved most in the world, Nissa Nissa, using her own blood to temper the sword and make it invincible.

"Then, mystical blade in hand, Azor Ahai led the final charge against the Others. And thankfully for us all, this time he was truly able to bring back the dawn." Melisandre finished. "The prophecy states he will come again, reborn amid salt and fire to wake dragons from stone. Other lords speak of a Prince who was Promised, who will also fight a great evil. As you know, these two saviors have been revealed in our hour of deepest need-which means that in some way or another Lightbringer will return once again."

"And where does that leave us?" Jon asked.

"We need a plan. The cold is upon us, men are dying in droves…If we don't do something soon the Seven Kingdoms will be doomed. These petty lords and their meaningless squabbles," she scoffed. "If they had their way they would ignore the enemy until it's too late for anyone. There would be no Iron Throne-only carrion fighting over bodies. There will have to be sacrifices. When the time comes, you must both be ready to do whatever Rh'llor asks of you without question or hesitation."

"Have you seen what is coming?"

"I see three riderless horses, bringing with them the stench of blood and death." The flames flickered on the walls, changing and contorting until they no longer seemed inanimate. Some of them looked suspiciously like skulls, leering out of the darkness. Melisandre seemed to notice the sudden change in lighting as well; she lit another candle and murmured an incantation Dany couldn't make out.

 _…Without question or hesitation._ "How will we know what we need to do?" Dany asked. Being a pawn in the game of the gods…the story seemed to stray further and further into the world of make believe with ever sentence.

"Rh'llor will make his wishes known." Melisandre said simply. "And when that time comes, you must fulfill them at any cost."

Neither Dany nor Jon answered right away; Dany for one wasn't sure she was willing to give up everything simply for faith alone. A faith she didn't really believe in, all things considered.

But there were also the dreams she couldn't explain…not exactly prophetic, but certainly not normal. And if it turned out that she was one of the only people who could stop a frozen apocalypse, how could she not sacrifice everything for the good of the kingdom that was hers by right?

Melisandre murmured a few more prayers and stood up to show them to the door. "Make your decisions quickly. This world needs saviors. Are you ready to take your places in the realm of legends?" Somewhere down the hallway a door blew open and shut in a stray gust of wind, sending a cold breeze whistling into the room like some kind of bad omen. "We don't have long. It has already begun. And the enemy won't stop until we are all dead."

~FAS~

As the water closed over her head, Arya wondered if she should be afraid. She couldn't see a thing. Her feet were scraping the rocks that littered the bottom of the canal. All the sounds that floated down from the water's surface-the cry of vendors hawking fresh fish and the chants of the red priests at their daily devotions-seemed faraway and distorted.

It was peaceful down here, among the fish. This late at night, the streets were almost deserted-apart from a few drunken bravos who couldn't afford a room in a tavern and so had to find their own street corner in which to huddle and wait for the dawn. One or two vendors peddled their carts on back roads, still hoping to sell the last of their catch. Arya turned her ears inward to see if she could recognize them by voice; there was the man two streets up who never seemed to need sleep (he went out every morning in his fishing boat to have first pick of the day's clams before anyone else and stayed out for hours selling the clams to anyone who would buy them); the twin boys (no older than Arya) who looked identical and advertised cod and cockles in high, lilting voices; and the old man with stringy white hair and only one shoe who wandered the city streets holding one moldy fish that he had been trying desperately to sell since the first day Arya had come to the city. She could see all these things and more-there was a boat approaching from the north and the moon was just beginning to rise-without really seeing any of it.

At first it had been hard to adjust to being blind. Arya had never truly known how dependent she'd become on her ability to see the enemy coming-but the first week had been very hard. She'd kept walking into walls, spilling things, dropping things, and stumbling over cracks in the floor. It was even worse when she roamed the city on errands; she'd been buffeted this way and that by a steady stream of people until she was hopelessly lost. It had taken her hours to find her way back to the House of Black and White and even then she found she had missed the evening meal and had to sup alone in the back of the kitchen. Perhaps the hardest part of all had been trying to eat soup she couldn't see while trying desperately not to drop the bowl. There had been times she'd been tempted to leave altogether-the Waif would have been only too happy to give back her sight if she asked for it-but that wasn't Arya's style.

She knew enough to know that once she left the House of Black and White for good she wouldn't be returning except to drink of the poison water herself.

Slowly she'd begun to grow accustomed to it all. She was more careful and made sure she relied on her other senses as much as she had relied on her ice. It didn't take her long to realize the sameness to everything-it didn't matter where she ended up on a day to day basis. The stones under her feet would always be in the same places. The vendors each staked out their own street corners and never strayed far from that spot. She even began to tell apart the inns and taverns based on the smells wafting out of windows thrown open to get a little fresh air. What had once been a challenge became little more than a game.

That first night she'd said her prayer more vehemently than ever before and dreamed of killing each and every one of them. She'd dreamt of blood beneath her nails and snapping necks with her bare hands. She was no stranger to death, of course. Corpses didn't frighten her. They were shells; having served one purpose they would soon be used for another.

Then, slowly but surely she had stared to say the prayer less and less. Every night she'd taken away just one name and tried to let go, until she no longer said it at all. She didn't see the need; she was No One. No One didn't have friends or enemies. No One was a giver; selected to give the gift of death to those who needed it.

Finally one night the Waif had roused her in the middle of the night and practically dragged her outside. She had proceeded to throw her in the canal and waited impatiently for Arya to find her footing again. It was a cold night; her thin servant's garb did nothing to ward away the predawn chill.

"Water dance." the Waif had said. She hadn't given further instructions; that wasn't her way. She taught by experience, as Arya had found out many times before.

Arya had gingerly taken a step into the water and fallen in again. The water had gotten into her nostrils and she'd had to cough it out, choking as it burned the back of her throat. She tried again and again but the same thing had happened every time; she was finding it impossible to walk on the surface of the water without falling in.

Finally the Waif had left Arya to find her way back inside as the sun rose and the first fishermen towed their galleys out to sea. Arya had been tired, frustrated, and soaking wet but the Waif hadn't let up. The next night she had been roused again and for every night since.

She stood up now, wiping water from her eyes with the backs of her hands. The Waif would be watching; never attempting to help but standing nearby and watching her carefully.

 _Light. Be light._ Arya tried to imagine she was air, light and free. She'd done worse than this; she'd spent the night in dirty alleys and killed men in cold blood. There was no reason she shouldn't be able to do something this simple.

She took a step and fell in again, soaking her already soaked skin. It seemed she never fully dried now; just got wetter.

She tried again and again, always falling in. She tried not to be frustrated-no one had said training to be a Faceless Man would be easy after all.

Finally the Waif left her to come back inside. It was earlier than usual; for once, Arya still had a couple hours left to sleep before the city awoke of the day. She lay beneath her threadbare coverlet and tried to sleep, still snorting up water occasionally. She had the sword Jon had given her. _Needle._ She could always leave now and roam the Free Cities as a vigilante. There was nothing stopping her…

…Nothing but a father who had hired a dancing instructor for her and a mother who had always wanted her to be a lady.

More and more now, whenever she dreamed she inevitably ended up dreaming of the people who had once been her family. She relived dinners with other important families, where she'd had to sit very straight with her legs crossed just so and wait while servants laced her into dresses that cut off her airflow and brushed her hair until she was sure it would be ripped out of her head altogether. She dreamt of her brothers-Robb, Rickon, and Bran but especially Jon. She missed Jon more than anyone else. She still wished she could talk to him again, make him laugh. Maybe he would tell her a story about how it felt to be in the Night's Watch, far away at the top of the world. But Jon was dead, just like the rest of her family. She'd heard the news two weeks ago, while she'd been selling fish on the north side of town. She liked to mix things up; she never knew who she might meet or what stories they might have to tell.

Two Westerosian traders had walked by talking about a supply run they had just made to the Wall. "It was anarchy." one of them had said. "Apparently the men killed their own Lord Commander in cold blood."

"A pity." the other man had replied. "He was a nice man, by the look of him. What was his name again? He seemed rather young."

"Jon Snow. He was a northern bastard."

"Son of Lord Stark."

"The very same. A real shame what happened to him-though that doesn't surprise me. In these ties, it seems as though honor and loyalty have completely disappeared."

"The Starks are disappearing, aren't they? The Young Wolf and his mother died at the Red Wedding, the younger daughter disappeared after her father died, and the two young princes were murdered by that traitorous Greyjoy."

"Stark should never had taken him on as a ward. He was raised like one of them for years…"

"And then he killed them."

"Although even he might be better than the new Lord of Winterfell-the Bolton bastard."

"Have you heard the tales? I feel sorry for the Stark girl."

"True. These are terrible times. Simply terrible."

Arya had simply felt hollow. It wasn't as big a shock as it could have been; everyone else was dead or as good as, even her stupid older sister Sansa who had just wanted to marry the handsome prince. Still, it had hit her with the force of a train: Arya Stark was gone. She really was No One.

The next day passed in a blur. She flitted from tavern to tavern, waiting to see what she could overhear. She heard nothing that was of any interest to her, just stupid news from Westeros about the trials of Queen Margaery and the dowager queen, Cersei. She didn't care. They could both die.

Finally the time came for Arya's lesson. It was a warmer night than normal, though a breeze blew through the trees to keep things cool.

Arya faced the water and tried to think. Water was just like pavement-thought pavement didn't give out beneath her feet quite so easily. If she could be light as a cat on cobblestones, she could do the same on water.

As she extended her foot, dipping her toes into the cool water, she couldn't help thinking of Winterfell once again and the family she'd left behind. Especially Jon, murdered by the men who were supposed to be his.

Now she would never see him again.

If she closed her eyes and concentrated very hard, she could almost hear his voice. She could reach out and tousle his dark hair that was so like her own and see those brown eyes that always seemed to know exactly what she was thinking before she even told him what was wrong. If he was here he'd probably tell her to keep going no matter how frustrated she got.

She was a Stark, deep down. Starks didn't give up.

 _Calm as still water._

She focused on the sounds of her breathing, on the water sloshing beneath her feet, on the music coming from the Temple of the Moonsingers, and took a step forward.

And then another.

She didn't fall in.

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	4. The Old Gods

**Sorry about the long wait. School started and I've been trying to adjust to a new schedule.**

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 **Disclaimer: See Chapter 1**

 **Enjoy!**

If Jon ever had the chance to leave the North, he was going to go as far south as he possibly could and never look back once.

He was sick and tired of snow.

Sometime during the night, another blizzard had sprung up. It pounded the small army like tiny rocks, biting through their tough armor and tearing at the soft skin underneath. If they didn't reach Winterfell soon…he really couldn't be responsible for his actions. It was just too cold.

They'd managed to scrape together a bigger army than Jon had previously expected. He didn't know whether that had to do with the fight left in the Northmen still fighting for the family they had always respected and trusted, or the fact that they had dragons on their side. Viserion still hadn't returned with a response from Tyrion, but Dany didn't seem worried. Besides, two dragons should be more than sufficient for taking back one castle.

"We should reach the castle tomorrow evening." Willard Cleftjaw said, head of the scouting groups that Jon occasionally sent out to make sure they weren't walking into an ambush.

"Thank the gods." Jon muttered, watching as someone else moved a few small pieces across the board Jon and Daenerys used to strategize. "Do the Boltons know we're coming?"

"We ran into a scout a couple hours ago. He was killed on sight."  
"Are you certain he didn't have the chance to tell anyone else our whereabouts?" Daenerys asked from her position at the mouth of the tent. She'd just come from tending to Drogon and Rhaegal; when she pulled down her hood, Jon could see that she had tiny snowflakes tangled in her golden locks.

Willard seemed slightly offended by the very idea. "Begging your pardon, my lady, but no one lasts very long when they have one of my arrows through their windpipes."

Jon nodded once. "Thank you. You are all dismissed." One by one, his 'generals' sauntered out. He didn't miss how each and every one of them bowed to Dany but not one of them bowed to him. Then again, he didn't know why he expected them to. He was still a bastard, after all-just in better company. The tent flap swung shut after the last of them, keeping away the snow and the worst of the cold. Technically, it belonged to Daenerys; the red and black dragon on the front flap had been hastily stitched on but it could still be seen proudly even through a crowd of driving snow. Daenerys often opened it to the soldiers in greatest danger of frostbite and to members of her Cabinet-like Jon and the other generals. It was extremely lightweight; it had to be, as it moved at the army's constant pace. "How are the dragons?"

"They don't like the cold. They aren't suited for such harsh climates." Dany replied, surveying the board intently.

"One of the servants at Winterfell used to tell me stories about ice dragons: massive creatures of ice and snow who come down out of the far north and brought winter to the world on wings made of ice."

She nodded. "My brother told me about those dragons as well-but they haven't been seen in centuries."

"Neither had the White Walkers."

"What do they look like? I've never seen one."

 _Then count yourself lucky._ "They radiate cold, from the heart of their very being. They're taller than most men and far, far stronger. They carry blades of ice that can freeze and break those of simple metal. They're almost unstoppable."

"Do you think that if it comes to a war between humans and Others…do you think we even stand a chance?"

He considered his answer carefully. "I used to not think so. But now that we have dragons…who really knows?" They were at a large disadvantage, but the battle wasn't lost yet. He gestured to the rest of the camp. "How are they?"

"Cold, hungry, and tired of marching. We lost two to frostbite today-and another two look close to death. But we're surviving."

"Good." He couldn't ask for anything more.

"They're making the evening meal. The soup looks very watery, but it's better than eating snow."

She had a point there. "Why don't we both go?"

"I want to run strategies. Go ahead. I'll be fine on my own for a little while."

"I'm sure the men would love to see you."

"No. I make them uncomfortable."

"They're just worried you'll order your dragons to burn them on sight."

He managed to coax a rare smile out of her. "I won't unless they desert."

"Aren't you hungry?" They were trying to ration; breakfast had consisted of a cup of cold water that was rumored to be nothing but melted snow and a couple pieces of brown bread that were hard as rock. There hadn't been time to break for food in the middle of the day; by now his stomach was trying to eat itself and he'd assumed everyone else felt the same way.

She waved him off easily. "Not really. Go on-before the food gets cold. I have guards outside at all hours. I'm in no danger. Test the morale. Talk to them. Ask them about their families. And please, try to enjoy yourself while you're at it. You always look like you're upset with one thing or another."

"I'm just not very emotional. But if you insist-"

"Jon, I'm sure you're hungry. I'll talk to you later."

"Fine. But I'm bringing something back for you." He didn't wait for a reply; it was going to be a long night and she'd need to eat at some point.

The camp was crowded even this late at night. Jon hadn't permitted his troops to light many fires for fear the Boltons and their spies would see them, but the few fires that burned merrily were crowded with people. Men sang bawdy drinking songs and spoke in too loud voices about the lives and wives they had left behind. Jon wondered how many of them would return home safely once their crusade was over.

"Take a seat, Snow!" someone said good-naturedly, scooting over on a bench and motioning for him to sit down beside him. A few men called out greetings; one even passed him a beer. Jon didn't know exactly where it had come from, but he figured it was better not to ask.

They talked for a while as men compared the beauty of their wives and girlfriends. Jon stayed politely out of the conversation, laughing in all the right places and joining in on all the right songs. Rank didn't matter here; they would all have an equal chance of dying come morning.

Snow stung Jon's face as someone nudged him with an elbow and jostled his fresh cup of beer. "And what about you, Snow? Any lady loves?"

He shook his head. "The Young Wolf got all the girls."

"Surely not. You've had at least one love, haven't you?" They all looked at him far too attentively.

Jon rolled his eyes. "I was once in love with a wildling. She had hair kissed by fire."

An appreciative murmur ran through the group assembled. "What was her name?" someone shouted out.

"Ygritte. She was my first and only love."

"You seem to be forgetting someone." Willard said, seeming to materialize at his side.

"What do you mean?"

"Don't you know?"

"I'm afraid we're not quite on the same page." _Or even in the same book._

Willard laughed a deep and hearty laugh. "What do you really do with all that time you spend inside that tent with the dragon queen?"

Jon rolled his eyes again. "Nothing you would find interesting."

"Are you sure? You know you can tell us anything, right Snow?"

"Anything in the world!" someone else chimed in. "We're good at keeping secrets."

 _Sure you are. Until the intoxication wears off._ "I would consider it-if I had any secrets to tell."

A rumble of discontentment ran through the crowd. Obviously everyone thought he was lying to them, but he didn't care. Let them think whatever they wanted to. It didn't matter.

Just then, another scout came up to their group. "Queen Daenerys requests your presence." Jon noticed how he was nice enough to say 'requests' and not 'demands'.

"Tell her I'm on my way." He grabbed the bowl of soup he'd saved for her; he'd been holding it close to the fire in an attempt to keep it hot, but it was still lukewarm at best.

The men chorused their goodbyes as he left them. "Give my regards to the dragon queen!" someone yelled. Everyone else laughed rowdily.

The tent was silent as the grave compared to the crowds outside. Daenerys was examining the map intently, looking as though she hadn't moved in the almost three hours he'd been gone. "I brought you this." he said, handing her the soup.

"Thank you." She drank the soup appreciatively, still looking at the board. "How are our troops?"

"Their morale is up-though that may be due to the fact that some of them managed to sneak in beer."

She laughed. "Why doesn't that surprise me? If it keeps them in good spirits, it must be doing some kind of good."

"What are you looking at?"

She gestured to the board, which showed their troops in comparison to those of the Boltons. "Stannis Baratheon thought he had all the men and arms necessary to take back Winterfell-but in the end all he gained was his own death."

"Stannis had a far harder march than we did. Many of his men died or deserted before they even reached the battlefield, driven away by the snow. There were some days the inclement weather prevented them from moving at all. They were in now shape to fight when they arrived at the castle. I've heard it said that they were cursed from the start."

"But we'll be different."

"Of course. We can defeat the Boltons with little trouble and even fewer casualties. After all," he finished, "They don't have dragons."

"I suppose you're right." She moved a few companies around experimentally. They'd opted not to plan a siege; it would take time they just didn't have. "What is your sister like?"

Jon tried to remember. He'd last seen Sansa years ago, and even then they'd never been close. "She was innocent and naïve. She didn't know anything about the way the world really works. All she wanted was a handsome prince to marry. She was engaged to Joffrey Baratheon at one point."

"I was under the impression he married Margaery Tyrell."

"He did. It wouldn't be proper for a king to marry the daughter of a traitor. She disappeared from King's Landing on the night of the king's wedding. Some people think she poisoned him. If she did, she's changed drastically."

Daenerys nodded. "We all have, in some way or another." The world didn't have any place for innocence. Jon knew exactly what she meant.

By the next evening, they would be camped practically outside the palace walls. After that, the matter was in the hands of the gods. He just hoped they weren't walking directly into a trap.

~FAS~

"Bite down on this."

The…thing that had once been Theon Greyjoy agreed obediently, taking the dirty piece of fabric Sansa offered him and biting down hard. With careful, practiced hands Sansa reset the bone-again. Theon's leg still hadn't healed correctly in the eight months since they'd attempted the suicide jump off Winterfell's walls. Every time the bone started to heal it always ended up healing the wrong way. The restraint did little to muffle his screams, but Sansa didn't notice. Maybe at one point they would have made her cringe but she was beyond caring now. "There. Done."

Theon lay back in the snow in relief, while Sansa went to the hot springs to wash up in silent frustration. They should have moved on long ago, but Theon was in no condition to do so. As it was, they spent their days in the godswood scraping out a living from whatever they could find and hiding from the Boltons and their guards. It wasn't a luxurious way of life by any means, but it was survival.

She remembered prayer services in the godswood over the years, always led by her father. It was almost comforting to be surrounded by so many memories-but at the same time it made her long for times long gone.

They were going to die out here. Whether the inevitable happened in one day or seven, it was coming. And Sansa was finished caring.

"It's warm." Theon murmured, dabbing hot water onto his cuts. "Don't you think, Sansa?"

She held a hand to his forehead. "You're burning up."

"What do you mean?"

She hesitated. "Never mind." Maybe it was a blessing. There would be fewer mouths to feed.

"Do you think we'll be rescued soon?"

"Of course. Any day now." It was a lie, of course-but it was better to die with sweet lies than the bitter truth. "Sleep, Theon."

At first she hadn't known how they were going to make it. When she closed her eyes at night she could still vividly remember that nightmarish trek through the howling snow and blustery wind. She'd barely been able to see where it was going and it had been so, so cold…not to mention the fact that she'd had to support Theon as well and make sure the blowing snow covered their bloody footprints. She'd been hurt, too-her ankle had been twisted badly-but not as bad as Theon.

And they'd found-stumbled into, more like-their salvation: a small cavern under the hot springs. It was naturally warm, heated by the same air that kept the water warm. It was small by most standards, but big enough for their needs. They spent most of their time in the caves, except for the rare times when their hunger drove them out into the frozen air to see what kinds of roots and berries they could find to eat.

"You shouldn't have come." Sansa scolded. "We could have done this in the caves. You're not well."

"I'm sick of staying in the caves. They're burning."

"Theon, it's freezing out here. You're going to catch a cold." _As if you haven't already._

"I can't stand it in there, Sansa. It's far too hot."

"Please, Theon."

He sighed. "Fine. If you insist." He limped back to the cave, leaving Sansa alone in the winter air. She sighed and sat down on the bank, trailing her boots in the warm water. If this was any other time she might have prayed for safety and rescue, but her gods had long since stopped listening to her.

She'd stopped feeling the hunger pains by now. It wasn't that they had stopped coming-because they were still as constant as ever. But they had started to become second nature; she'd stopped remembering what it felt like to feel full and satisfied. Half frozen nuts and berries could only take a human so far.

There were two berry bushes near the godswood. One had blackberries that Sansa had to hold near the surface of the hot springs until they thawed. The other bush held berries of a deep, dark purple-almost black. Robb had told her about them when they were very, very young. " _They're called nightshade. They can kill you quickly and painlessly."_ She carefully took a few in her hands and examined them. It would be a painless death…

She shook her head to make the traitorous thoughts leave. She wasn't that desperate. There were still a lot of blackberries and other kinds of tree nuts…for now. But even so, she knew it wasn't enough. They needed more sustenance than the rudimentary food could provide. Sansa was starting to crave fresh meat.

Almost as if in answer to her thoughts, she heard a rustle in some bushes nearby. A deer stepped out of the foliage, blinking at Sansa with big white eyes. It was beautiful-innocent, graceful, and quiet-but all she saw was venison dripping with exotic sauces as it sat in the middle of her family's table.

Before she even knew what she was doing, her eyes were scanning the ground in search of a suitable sized rock. Without taking her eyes off the deer, she grabbed a somewhat large rock out of the mud at the bottom of the hot springs. She caught her fingernail under the jagged edges of rock and it snapped off cleanly. _Breathe, Sansa._ She wasn't going to cry. She didn't have the time or energy for it.

Of course, the rock veered about as far off course as it could possibly go without actually going backwards when she finally decided to throw it. It missed the deer entirely; the animal looked at Sansa disdainfully before running off into the forest. Sansa groaned as she sank back to the floor of the grove in defeat. _We're going to die._ That was all there was to it.

She didn't want to get up. She lay on the floor of the godswood for a long time, listening to the wind whispering through the leaves overhead and the water trickling through the springs around her. It was peaceful here, away from the upheaval of King's Landing.

Just then, she heard the barking of dogs carried toward her by the wind and she knew she'd have to leave if she didn't want to die with a dog's teeth in her throat. Ramsay was sending out another patrol-which meant even this sacred place could be a safe haven no longer. Even so, she said a quick prayer before she left. She would need all the allies she could get-and it was always better to have gods on her side.

If the new gods wouldn't help her, maybe the old gods would.

~FAS~

Theon was delirious again.

"Sansa…." he whispered, pushing himself to an upright position. His muscles shook with the effort and sweat beaded on his forehead. "Sansa, you have to help me find Yara."

"Who is Yara?" Sansa asked, gently pushing him back to the ground. The former prince of the Iron Islands was little more than a toddler now; she had to be careful with him or there was a good chance he would break.

He didn't seem to hear her. "Yara…Yara, please…I'm sorry, Yara…so sorry."

She shook him as gently as she could manage. "Theon, wake up."

"Yara…all of my brothers are dead…I am the prince…last of my line….Seastone Chair…Winterfell…sorry... I didn't…"

"It's all right. You can wake up now." But it wasn't all right. She knew it wasn't. Robb was dead-because of him. Dozens of the servants she'd known and grown up with were dead-because of him. For years she'd thought her two youngest brothers had been killed-by his hand. And even after all of that he had just let them slip through his fingers-and now they were as good as dead anyway.

She would never, ever forgive him. But he'd saved her life-and he didn't deserve to die alone, even after all of that.

He rolled over so he was facing away from her, his breathing evening out in small increments. Sansa sat by his side for a minute or so, making sure he was sleeping peacefully. He got nightmares most nights; they both did. When Theon had been of sound (er) health, he used to wake her up after the worst ones-the ones that left her screaming in terror. Now she was the one constantly waking him up-and even then she often thought she was too late. She heard him muttering things as he wolfed down his berries. _Reek, Reek, it rhymes with weak…_

If he ever turned back into Reek…if he ever tried to go back to Ramsay to beg forgiveness for his actions…she was going to kill him. She had no other choice.

She shivered as the dogs howled and barked overhead, tearing though half frozen dirt with overeager paws. It made her remember her own direwolf, Lady. Lady had died years ago, but every so often Sansa dreamt of her still-always by her side and guarding her. When the nights grew especially cold and she worried she would freeze even in caves, she would imagine Lady curled up next to her like a warm, furry pillow.

Tonight was one of those nights. She dreamt of home. Everyone's faces were blurred; one some days she could remember every infinitesimal crease of age in her mother's face and at other times she struggled to remember the length of her younger sister's hair.

When she awoke, restless, she realized that the early morning was very quiet.

Too quiet.

She glanced next to her instinctively, waiting to see Theon sleeping next to her like always. His sleeping mat was empty.

She found him standing outside in the godswood. The entire place was covered in a fresh layer of snow like the dusting of icing on a tray of lemon cakes. It sparkled on the trees and covered any tracks the dogs might have left the night before. The night was silent and peaceful, to be sure-but Theon was grinning in a way Sansa hadn't seen him smile in over three years: the way he'd used to smile when he went hunting with Robb back when they were still good friends. "What is it?" she asked gently.

He looked to the sky in almost childlike anticipation. "We're going to be liberated."

She followed his line of sight, unsure of what he meant. The little bits of sky she could see through the trees were clear and cold-like they were most days. And then she heard it-a sound that shook the trees overhead and the ground beneath her feet. A sound that shook her to the core of her being-one she had never expected to hear in her lifetime.

The roar of a dragon.

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	5. Battle's End

**Disclaimer: See Chapter 1**

 **Enjoy!**

Winterfell was dreadfully understaffed.

Of course, Jon supposed that was only to be expected. It was winter and the castle hadn't been regularly supplied in he didn't know how long. Torrhen's Square was a mess-that was the nearest town in miles. Still, all of the soldiers burnt like kindling in the wake of dragonfire. Daenerys had allowed Drogon and Rhaegal to fly free and burn their way through the outermost gate-a task which they applied themselves to with an almost meticulous glee.

Jon ordered his forces to stay back for as long as possible. Even Dany didn't know whether or not the dragons would be able to tell the difference between the northmen and the Bolton army-and the last thing they needed was to lose more men.

"This had better work." he uttered, turning to look back at the mess of horses and men camped behind him and awaiting his signal.

"It will." Daenerys replied confidently. "Now, are you clear on the plan?"

"We've only been over it half a dozen times. My men are ready. They know where to go."

"And they know the signal?"

"Yes." One lantern lit meant they'd been successful; two meant the cause was lost, and three meant he had been killed and the rest of the attack would be up to her to manage. "We'll be ready. And what about yourself?"

"I have dragons. They're signal enough." she replied for the millionth time-the same way she'd responded every time Jon asked her to at least consider more protection than the small honor guard she'd been assigned. "We're wasting time. I'll see you after the attack, once Winterfell is ours and we can truly celebrate." She started walking towards the door of the inner wall, a contingent of six guards behind her. Jon didn't think Ramsay would be stupid enough to try anything with an armed host and two dragons inside his walls, but he couldn't be sure.

"See you then." Jon watched with unease as she conferred quietly with the guards on the gate walls. The dragons circled overhead, sated for the moment but ready to breathe more fire if necessary. Without further conflict, she was let inside and the door closed behind them.

Jon turned to Willard, who was standing on his left side. "Do not attack until one of the men manages to raise the Stark flag. Do you understand? Not before." With that, he left with his own group.

Satin was waiting for them inside the gates. "Her Majesty was shown inside safely. The bodies are in the supply room, just as you requested."

"And you are sure no one saw?" Jon replied. Privacy was of the utmost importance.

Satin rolled his eyes. "They never saw it coming."

With any luck, neither would the Boltons. "Was there any sign of Lady Sansa?"

"Not that I could see."

 _That makes our job all the harder._ And his odds of survival hadn't been all the great as it was.

The unconscious bodies of eight guards lay in the supply cabinets. Quickly, all of Jon's men exchanged armor. Jon hated wearing the Bolton crest on his armor; it made him feel like roaches were crawling up and down his spine. It couldn't be helped. He had to find Sansa.

In they went. At first Jon worried they would be recognized on sight-although that was completely absurd as it was. Not to mention the fact the Bolton soldiers were in a panic what with the outer wall breached and dragons in the sky. They were able to blend in easily with the general rush of the melee.

"Spread out-but stay in reach." Jon muttered. "Don't go too far. If Sansa is found, I want to be the first to know."

Strategically they moved through the rooms one by one. He let his mind wander to Sansa. What would she be like now? Would she even recognize him after all this time. He certainly wasn't innocent anymore-then again, neither was she.

They had no luck on the first floor-or the second. Jon was beginning to get worried. If the dragons got bored and decided to attack, the whole place would go up like kindling. And somehow he didn't think he could be resurrected a second time.

The third floor was beginning to look as though it was just as unhelpful until the man standing nearest to him-whose name also happened to be John-nudged his elbow and pointed down a dimly lit corridor. There was a set of large double doors paneled in gold-and from behind those doors came the strains of crying.

Female crying.

Within seconds Jon had knocked the door down and he and his men were inside. The room was a bedchamber of some sort. A woman wearing a thin white nightgown knelt down on the floor next to bed, praying and crying profusely.

It didn't take long for Jon to realize that this was not Sansa. Sure, they both had auburn hair and looked to be around the same age but this girl had different colored eyes and her face had a strange pointed look to it. She looked just as shocked to see Jon as he was to see her. "Who are you?" she asked through her tears.

"I could ask you the same question.' Jon replied coldly. This was just adding more time; he needed to get out of the castle as soon as possible. "Where is Lady Stark?"

The girl burst into a fresh wave of tears. "Lady Stark ran away months ago. No one has seen her in ages, but Ramsay said we look alike. He made me pretend to be his wife for all these months so the northern lords wouldn't rebel against him…but I hate him! He's cruel and sadistic and-" There was a loud crash down the hall and she buried her head in her pillow. "Is this it? Am I going to die?"

Jon exchanged glances with Satin. The girl truly looked innocent. They couldn't just leave her here to die-but this also complicated their search for Sansa. "What's your name?" he asked steadily, so as not to startle her. He wasn't used to crying girls. From the looks of his men, they weren't either.

"Myriah Snow." she replied, brushing a stray piece of hair out of her eyes.

"And how did you come to be working for such a leech?"

"I was a mistake…my mother sold me as soon as she could to the Boltons for two bags of gold."

Unwanted. He knew what that felt like. "Do you know where Sansa went?"

"She jumped off a tower with Theon Greyjoy. They haven't found her yet."

Jon swore. "Fine. Come along with us-but you need to move fast. And please try to stop crying."

Myriah wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. "Thank you, my lord."

He laughed almost harshly. "I'm no lord. Satin, look after her." Satin nodded and wrapped an arm around the girl protectively. Her frenzied sobs were slowly subsiding into small hiccups.

"Very well." Jon sighed. "It appears we'll have to expand our search."

~FAS~

Of course, no one knew exactly where Sansa had jumped. That would be too easy.

 _If I were Sansa, where would I go?_

He wouldn't stay in the castle, that was for sure.

The night was clear and cold, the courtyard shining distantly under a blanket of stars. It was crowded with activity: Bolton men were pulling on their armor and sharpening swords as they yelled back and forth in confusion. Jon almost felt sorry for them and the fiery holocaust they'd soon face.

Without being asked, the men closed ranks around Myriah to shield her from view. The last thing they needed were more questions. "Where are we going?" Martyn asked, another of Jon's elite.

Jon scanned the courtyard and the surrounding outbuildings. They were all just hulking slabs of burnt wood crouched low in the dim night. For a moment his heart twisted with pain. Sure, he'd never fit in here but it had still been his home. There was the courtyard where Donal Noye had told him how to swing his first sword. There was the library where Maester Luwin had taught him and Robb about the fall of the Targaryen dynasty. There was the tower where Arya had used to do needlepoint with Sansa in the afternoons-and he'd often stop in to distract them. If he closed his eyes he could picture it all exactly how it had been that last day: horses pawing the ground, whips cracking in the early morning air. It had been chilly, but still summer.

And that was the last time he'd been truly home.

That was when he realized where Sansa would be. There was no doubt about it. "The godswood." He whispered, shaking his head to clear it. The memories seemed to dissolve before his eyes like splintered pictures. The past was past. This was the present: a reality of dust and death. "Follow me." HE lganced toward the flag tower worriedly. It was still topped by the Bolton flag. They were safe. For now.

The godswood was deserted. A fresh layer of snow coated the ground and Jon was about to turn back when he realized the snow wasn't all fresh. Near the edge of the hot springs were two sets of footprints. One set were heavy, like they belonged to a man, but the other sat was smaller…."Sansa?" he called as loudly as he dared.

The only response was the cry of a raven in a nearby tree.

"Sansa?" he tried again, pacing now. "Sansa?"

Still nothing.

"She's not here, Jon." Satin replied quietly, draping his cloak over a quietly sobbing Myriah.

"No. I was sure-" He began to pace the clearing, straining his ears to hear even the smallest of noises.

And suddenly he heard a rustling from a nearby bush. A disbelieving voice said "Jon?" A young woman stepped out of the foliage-and Jon instantly recognized her. Sansa had definitely grown up-she no longer looked like the little girl who spent her every waking moment working on needlepoint. But she was recognizably Sansa.

And Jon couldn't be happier.

She leapt into his arms, burying her face in his coat. "I didn't think you were ever going to come back."

He hugged her tightly. "I've missed you. Come on-we're getting you to safety." As quickly and concisely as he could manage, he explained what was happening up at the castle.

"Will Ramsay die?" Sansa asked quickly when he'd finished.

"If all goes as planned."

Her eyes narrowed and it began to dawn on Jon that this was not the Sansa he had left behind. "Good. I hope he dies screaming."

"We should leave." Martyn whispered, glancing at the castle as if they were already under attack.

"Wait." Sansa replied, grabbing his sleeve. "Jon, we have to go back."

"What? Why?"

"Theon. He's…not well."

Jon was torn. His men looked about ready to bolt and he wanted to leave as soon as possible. Besides, all of this was Theon's fault. If he had just appreciated everything Eddard Stark had done for him since he was ten years old Winterfell would still be safe. His younger half brothers would still be alive. But Sansa was looking at him so earnestly…she obviously didn't want to leave him to rot. "We can't carry him."

She nodded once. "But you can ease his passing, can't you?"

Jon glanced at his men, ready to go to the end of the world and beyond for his sake. If this all went south, he wanted to give them a chance. They deserved at least that. "All of you, save Martyn and Satin, take Myriah and leave while you still can. We'll meet at the camp later.

Other John protested. "We won't leave you."

"I am not asking."

They exchanged looks and the four men in question melted into the trees as one. Jon saw Myriah's frightened face looking back at him for a split second before she too was gone.

He turned to Sansa, who was watching him solidly. "Lead the way."

~FAS~

If Sansa hadn't known where she was going, Jon would have walked right past the cave entrance. It was half buried under a pile of rotting leaves and a cracked gravel stature of some god whose name had long been lost to time. They seemed to be built under the hot springs, as the whole place was heated like a furnace.

"Watch your head." Sansa said as she ducked through the entrance of the small space. The cave was pleasantly warm; a welcome reprieve from the cold outside.

Theon lay near the fire; a quivering mess of blankets. Every so often he rolled over and groaned. Beads of sweat coated his forehead and he was breathing heavily. Jon could see the signs of fever settling in-and settling in deeply. The Ironborn prince was as good as dead.

Sansa knelt down next to him and took his hand. "Theon, wake up please."

He groaned and opened bleary eyes. They were milky and crusty; he had to rub them violently to get them clean. "Yara? What is it?"

"I've brought help. I brought Jon. You remember Jon Snow, don't you?"

"Jon…Snow." He rolled the name over on the tip of his tongue as if picking it out of some long ago memory. And then again, with more conviction. "Jon Snow." There was no happiness or resentment; his tone was simply solid.

 _Yes. I was raised by Eddard Stark, just like you were. Yet I remembered all he did for me. I didn't betray the last of his family._

"We can't take him." Jon replied. "We have neither the space nor the manpower." Besides, even if they did somehow manage to revive Theon they were only prolonging the inevitable. He was very nearly spent.

Sansa nodded. "I know." She squeezed Theon's hand. "That's why we're going to send you home."

He appeared to know what was happening, even in his addled state. "Home. Pyke."

Jon pulled out his sword, sharpening it on a nearby rock. Even with all his past crime, Theon had saved Sansa's life-and that was something to be grateful for. He didn't want to make the task any more painful than it had to be. "Thank you for looking after Sansa."

Theon laughed almost lopsidedly. A grin spread across his face, the manic smile of someone who knew he was lost and had long since stopped caring. And yet for a minute Jon almost saw the old Theon, the one who had always been laughing-always looking for a new game to play or a new prank to pull. "Reek, Reek. Rhymes with weak. Not Reek. Not anymore."

"Right." Sansa replied. "You're Theon. You are Theon Greyjoy, and you've committed terrible atrocities-but you're also a hero. I hope you find peace in the Drowned God's halls."

"Sansa….Goodbye, Sansa. I'm….sorry. For everything." A bubble of saliva formed in the corner of his mouth and burst as the prince's eyes drifted closed for the last time.

Jon took a moment to measure his sword before he drew it across Theon's neck with one smooth stroke. The body lolled like a marionette with all its strings cut. "That was for Bran and Rickon."

Sansa's hand tightened on his forearm. "Jon, they aren't dead."

That was enough to get his attention and distract him from all the half formed escape plans to keep them out of the Bolton's clutches. The last thing he needed was for Sansa to be going the same way as Theon. "What?"

"Theon told me before he died…it was a ruse. He didn't actually kill Bran and Rickon." She was clutching him in a death grip now. "They could still be alive."

~FAS~

The whole castle stank of dog.

Dany could hear their barking wherever she went. Not just that; she could hear their whines and howls as they threw themselves forlornly against the walls of their cages. They weren't the only ones; the Bolton men seemed about as worked up. And well they should be-by the end of the night, they would be dead.

Her guard kept perfect formation as they walked through Winterfell's numerous hallways and stairwells to reach the tower room Ramsay had taken for his own. At one point, the place could have been a respectable palace-it was nowhere near the lavishness of the Red Keep, but it was nice enough. Now everything was charred, burnt, and dirty. It would take months, perhaps years, to restore it to its formal glory. She shook her head; Jon wouldn't be pleased.

She almost missed him. Over the past few days she'd grown so accustomed to seeing him following her like a shadow that she kept looking over her shoulder expecting to see him now. Of course, he wasn't there. He was finding his sister; she just had to buy him time.

"Welcome, Lady Targaryen." Ramsay said as she let herself into his study. He looked like a weasel of a man; his nose was shriveled up and his eyes were constantly shifting from side to side shrewdly. "Have you come to parley?"

"It depends." Daenerys replied evenly. "Do you feel you need a parley? It may be a wise decision-after all, an armed host lies camped on your doorstep and two dragons fly over your head. You are outnumbered and your fire power is greatly diminished. You can choose not to parley, but you and every man in this castle with a Bolton crest on their armor will burn a fiery death if you don't."

His smile didn't dim a bit. "Stannis Baratheon came before me seeking to destroy me and I sent his forces fleeing for their very lives. The main courtyard stank of corpses for a week. What makes you think you won't meet the same fate? It would be a shame to have to kill such a pretty girl."

Her flesh crawled but she ignored it. "Stannis Baratheon didn't have dragons." As if to punctuate her point, Rhaegal roared loudly.

Ramsay was beginning to look worried now. "And what terms are open for negotiation?"

"You step down as Lord of Winterfell due to your family betraying the vows you swore to the Starks centuries ago. In addition, you will annul your marriage to Sansa Stark. You and all men who follow you will march back to the Dreadfort alive-and you will count yourselves lucky. Most of my adversaries do not receive such a generous choice."

Ramsay's grin widened. "I'm afraid a bargain has not been reached. The Starks are dead-the Young Wolf was slaughtered at the Red Wedding and his younger brothers murdered by Theon Greyjoy, prince of the Ironborn. It fell to the young Lady Stark to marry someone of respectable northern birth in order to carry on her bloodline after the debacle with the late Tyrion Lannister."

 _Tyrion Lannister is half again the man you will ever be._ "Think carefully, Lord Bolton. Do not a mistake you will later regret."

"You will not win the North through conquest. The northern lords and their houses will always be loyal to the Lord of Winterfell-me."

"You are an usurper, just like Joffrey Baratheon and his father before him. Have you heard what happen to them? They died. Usurpers cycle through like leaves in a fall wind but they never last. Would you like to be remembered for having the wisdom to kneel or the foolishness to die by fire and blood?"

His eyes flashed angrily. "For as long as I draw breath I will never kneel to the likes of a southron dragon bitch!" Flecks of spittle flew from his mouth and landed on her cape of pure white. She eyed the wet spots with distaste but stayed composed, gesturing for her guards to remain still. She'd been called far worse. Sooner or later, he would pay dearly for that comment.

"As you wish." she replied, subtly shifting her cape so it hung over her left shoulder instead of her right. "I tire of waiting for you to see reason." One of her guards slipped outside; she noticed the way Ramsay's eyes followed him closely. "He will not go far. Our army has marched for days and I am quite thirsty." Of course, she was no such thing. "If you will not have peace, we will have war."

"Good. I hope I will have the pleasure of killing you myself." She knew he wouldn't actually, when it came down to it; she was worth much more alive than dead. "I will destroy your army and everyone you hold dear."

Instinctively, ridiculously, she thought of Jon. No-he could take care of himself.

As could she. "Remember when the flames engulf you that you annihilation came from the sky." With that she took her leave, her guards following closely as always.

It had begun to grow dark; the army rested uncomfortably. She went to find Willard around the officers' campfire; she felt a small thrill of pride as she saw the way her troops dotted the hillside. The Boltons were hopelessly outnumbered-and they would die screaming. "Has Jon returned yet?" she asked.

"No, your majesty." Willard replied. "He was expected back some time ago."

Her gut clenched uncomfortably.

I'm sure he is on his way." he added quickly.

"I'm sure he was just sidetracked." Dany replied. Even so, she worried as she walked back to her tent to wait for the battle to start. She had wanted to join the fight but Jon, Willard, and all her other advisors had done everything short of refusing to let her fly dragon back. Apparently, she was too important to lose. And so she had resigned herself to spending a very long night in her tent waiting for any sort of news or until she could convince them she could be trusted not to get herself killed.

Drogon's roar slit the night in two and she smiled in spite of herself

Suddenly she heard a loud cheer go up from the surrounding men. Quickly, she stepped outside to see what all the fuss was about. For a second she thought Jon and Sansa had returned but the men were all moving in a steady stream toward Winterfell's main gates. The leaping grey direwolf on a snowy white background crowned the highest tower.

The battle had begun.

~FAS~

The camp was a lonely place with all the soldiers gone. The only people left were the usual string of camp followers, cooks, the sick and infirm, and a bevy of pages and squires who were too young to fight. Everything was much quieter, though in the distance the night rang to the slash of swords and the screams of dying men.

The minutes crawled by and still Jon didn't return. She had no way of knowing what was going on outside.

"May I get you something to drink, my queen?" Annaliese, a soldier's daughter in training to be a healer, asked curiously.

Daenerys sighed, moving the playing pieces on her map in another empty power play. "That sounds wonderful. And make a cup for yourself while you're at it." They would need to keep their strength up, come what may.

It was going to be a long night.

Jon and Sansa wasted precious time arguing over what to do with the body. Theon Greyjoy had done terrible and despicable things-he'd done things Jon could never forgive him for as long as he lived-but in the end he'd at least tried to be a good person. He deserved a decent burial-unfortunately they didn't have the time or resources to do such a thing.

Eventually, Sansa insisted that they should leave the corpse to be carried away by the hot springs in accordance with his religion. It wasn't Jon's first choice, but Sansa was adamant-which was how he found himself wading out into the middle of the warm water in his armor to let the body float away.

"You do have a plan, right?" she asked, watching him slog back to the bank with water dripping from the edges of his cape. "We aren't stuck here, are we?"

He exchanged a look with both Satin and Martyn. "Of course not. I have an army camped outside the castle gates. They're waiting for us to return."

"You have an army?" She sounded like she was trying to hide her disbelief and he in turn tried not to sigh. Was it that hard to believe he was capable of doing great things?

"Technically it's not my army. It is an army comprised mainly of Northerners-Northerners who aren't ready to be ruled by a man who flays his enemies alive. I also managed to ally Daenerys Targaryen to our cause."

"She lives across the sea, doesn't she? I've heard of her-but I thought she was all the way in Slaver's Bay."

"Yes, well…you _have_ been hiding in the godswood for the past months. Don't blame yourself if you aren't exactly up to date on the War of the Five Kings." It wasn't even about the Five Kings anymore; they were all long dead. It was all about who was going to lead the Seven Kingdoms now; if there was anyone up to the task. Jon was beginning to doubt that. It seemed like the fight would never end; all the lords of the Seven Kingdoms seemed content to fight amongst themselves until the White Walkers were practically on their doorstep. But Daenerys was different.

At least, he hoped she was.

"What's she like?" Sansa asked.

Jon had to think for a minute. "She's different." he said truthfully. "She…cares about people. She doesn't seem to be in this just for her birth right. She is fighting for something bigger-like our father. You'll like her. She is looking forward to meeting you."

Sansa nodded. "Thank you for coming, Jon." she said quietly. "I thought…I thought everyone had forgotten about me. I didn't think anyone was going to come."

He briefly allowed himself to imagine her living with Ramsay for the rest of her life. She would have been miserable-and no one would have cared. Once she'd married Ramsay, she'd become nothing more than an object-his property. To most of the Northern lords, that had sealed her fate. No one would have inquired after her. It was enough to make a shiver snake down his spine. "It was the least I could do. You're still my sister." _In all the ways that matter._

Suddenly, the night erupted with the peal of bells and the barking of dogs. Jon realized they'd been gone much longer than he had hoped to; the battle for Winterfell had already started. He swore and scrambled up the bank and out of the cave with Sansa, Martyn, and Satin close on her heels.

"What's going on?" Sansa asked.  
"The Battle for Winterfell has just begun." Satin explained. "Which is going to make it that much harder for us to make our way back to the camp."

Sansa still looked very confused, but the time for explanations was long past. "We'll explain on the way." Jon said, desperate to keep them moving. "But right now, we need to get out of here." He tried to remember if there was a way he could circle back around from the godswood and come back to the camp another way. It would take them too close to Bolton forces, but it was the best chance they had. "Come on." He led the way, carefully planning a route while Martyn and Satin swept away their footprints in the new coating of snow.

They passed the first dead man just outside the edges of the godswood. He wore Bolton armor and blood ran from a cut in his windpipe, tinting his chain mail a rusty red. Footprints rimmed in blood staggered off in the direction of the castle, as if he'd dragged himself away from the battle to die. Jon noticed how Sansa looked at the corpse with a practiced indifference; he wondered just how much the War of the Five Kings had changed her.

Maybe he would never know for sure.

They walked on, as the sounds of battle rang in their ears: the clash of metal swords, the bark of dogs, and the cries of frantic horses as they tried to run from the mayhem. Jon stayed as close to the tree line as he possibly could; there would be plenty of time to fight once Sansa was safe. As they got closer and closer to Winterfell proper, they saw more and more corpses. Most of them bore the symbol of the flayed man of the Dreadfort-but more than a handful were wearing the snarling direwolf of House Stark. Jon made sure not to look at their faces; the last thing he wanted was to see a friend among the dead.

In a way he felt cowardly for not fighting alongside his comrades-but he knew his mission was important in its own way. If their forces didn't successfully rescue Sansa Stark, all the sacrifice would have been for nothing.

And Jon wasn't going to let his men die in vain.

At one point, the battle had started to leech its way into the surrounding forest. Fights were happening so close to where the small group moved across the snowy earth like shadows that Jon could practically see the way the sun glinted off the swords of the combatants as they continued their duels of life and death. Finally he realized they couldn't go any farther without landing themselves right in the middle of a fight and getting trapped there.

"What do we do now?" Satin asked in annoyance. "We can't go that way."

Jon's mind was working as fast as it could, but there were just too many variable to factor in. Whichever way they went, they would hit a fight at some point. That fact was inescapable.

"We can try to go around." he suggested halfheartedly. It would take them far off course and they would take twice as long to get to the rendezvous point…but it would keep them out of the way of most of the major fighting.

"The most direct route would be to go through the castle." Sansa said.

"It's too dangerous. We'd be passing through a battlefield-and not all of us are armed."

"I can stay out of the way."

He sighed. "We can't risk-"

"If we take the long route, we have a better chance of getting lost or missing the battle completely. This is the best choice we have." She shivered. "I wouldn't be going back if I didn't believe it was absolutely necessary."

Jon, Martyn, and Satin exchanged a look. "She has a point." Martyn said.

"I'd rather die in battle than freeze to death." Satin added.

Jon sighed. "Fine. But at least take this." He handed Sansa a small dagger he had taken just before he left the camp. It wasn't much but it had a sharp blade. "Stay with us. No running ahead or lagging behind-and don't stop for anything. If one of us is killed, keep going. Get out of the castle and take the Kingsroad North. Stark forces are camped all over; you're sure to find someone. Ask for Daenerys Targaryen. You'll be taken right to her. Do you understand?" Sansa nodded. "Good. Let's go." He altered course; they broke the tree line in three minutes.

Winterfell was a madhouse. Men were dying everywhere Jon looked and parts of the grounds had been set ablaze by Drogon and Rhaegal, who still roamed the skies almost nonchalantly. Most of the ruins of the castle had been set ablaze; flames stood out against the sky like beacons.

"Duck!" Satin called as someone threw an axe directly for his head. Jon ducked easily and the axe embedded itself in a nearby tree, quivering where it landed. Martyn looked as though he was almost considering going back for it but eventually decided against it; they had to keep moving.

It took longer than he would have liked to make his way through the courtyard. He was constantly stepping on bodies and his shoes were caked with blood by the time he reached Winterfell. They had to alter course at least three times and Jon and Satin had even had to do a little fighting to ensure the road in front of them clear. But none of them died, and he supposed he should be grateful for that.

He'd thought things would be better in Winterfell, considering that entire sections of the castle were on fire-but the halls were as busy as ever, crammed with soldiers looking for a fight and servants who just wanted to escape the melee.

"Lady Stark!" a serving girl whose skirt was streaked with char marks cried as they passed. "You're alive!" Sansa gave her a halfhearted smile as they hurried on, past tapestries that had been cut to ribbons and even more corpses.

"Someone's popular." Satin remarked quietly.

"Not everyone in Winterfell was as cruel as Ramsay is." Sansa replied.

Suddenly there was an earthshattering roar and the wall in front of Jon seemed to explode into flame. He stepped back quickly, almost walking right into Martyn. _They could have picked a better place to light on fire…_ "Change of plans." He hadn't been raised in Winterfell for nothing.

He soon realized that it would be harder to get out than he had previously thought. He didn't know exactly which parts of Winterfell were on fire, so they kept running into rooms or even entire wings that had already been set ablaze. They wasted precious time going in circles, taking passageway after passageway in hopes of finding one that wouldn't eventually end in a fiery inferno.

Unfortunately, they couldn't be that lucky.

Finally Jon swore and skidded to a stop as they reached yet another door that seemed suspiciously hot to the touch. "I'm out of ideas. It's someone else's turn to think of something." This was not the way he would have preferred to die-running in circles while he was burned alive. He wanted to die with honor and dignity-burning only a couple miles from safety was neither.

"We could always try the roof." Sansa said.

"How do we know that isn't on fire either?"

"And even if it's not, how are we planning to get down?" Martyn asked.

"We do what Bran always did." Sansa replied calmly. "We climb."

"That has got to be one of the most insane ideas I've heard today. And this plan has been one colossal mess from beginning to end."

"We're not done yet." Jon replied. "And she might have a point." Climbing the roofs and gables of Winterfell couldn't be anything like climbing the Wall, and he'd managed to do that.

Either way, he didn't want to die here. "Sansa, lead the way."

Sansa took charge with ease, opening a door Jon would have ignored if he'd still been leading. It opened onto a narrow staircase that spiraled up and up into the uppermost reaches of the castle, made of carved stone that was still slick to the touch. "Hurry. This place could come down around us any minute."

The ascent was clumsy and frantic, but they didn't have another option. They were practically scrambling over each other in their rush to get to the top of the staircase. Jon had never seen it before and he certainly had no idea where it went but Sansa never faltered-even when she reached a heavy wooden door that was locked fast against them. She dug out a key from the bottom of a wall sconce nearby, opening it easily with a flick of her wrist. The door sprang away as if startled, revealing a night as black as pitch. Jon could barely see two feet in front of them as Sansa walked out onto a narrow stone rooftop that looked down over the courtyard. "What is this place?"

"Ramsay and a couple of his closest…friends…used to drop people off the side. They placed bets on whether their victims would be dead before they hit the ground or whether they would crawl around for a while shouting in misery until someone took mercy on him and stabbed him through the chest. Sometimes he made me watch."

Martyn pulled out a long length of rope. "Where would you like me to attach this, Lord Snow?"

"Wherever you can find the space." Jon replied. "How long does it reach?"

"Only partway. We'll have to jump a good distance though."

"Will it be fatal?"

"Not if we time it right." He set to work busily, Satin holding up a torch so he could see what he was doing. It had started to snow again; the torch sparked worryingly every time it came into contact with the tiny little flakes but it remained lit. The roof wasn't very large; in fact, it was barely large enough to accommodate all of them standing up. The stones that held the structure together had long since been worn smooth by weather and the forces of time, but here and there Jon could see the markings of what had once been direwolves carved into the rock. "All right, I think we've got it." He stepped back, revealing a rope that hung down the side of the roof-though it stopped partway up, and the drop to the ground still seemed dizzyingly long. "Who's first?"

Jon was just about to volunteer himself-after all, this had all been his idea and he deserved to be their first test victim-when there was a shuffling on the ground below and someone came into view in the courtyard below. "Leaving so soon?"

"Shit." Martyn muttered; Jon was inclined to say he felt the same way. He'd been hoping Ramsay would be incinerated in the first bouts of dragonfire-although he couldn't say he was surprised to find him still alive. _The evil never do seem to die easily, do they?_ "What do we do now, Lord Snow?"

"We kill him." Jon replied calmly. "It's one against four; I think we can handle ourselves." He drew Longclaw, firelight glittering off the edge of its blade. "But first we need to get down from here; the roofs will be the first things to catch fire if it comes to that."

"Going to stand up there all day?" Ramsay continued, pacing in the snow below them. "Too afraid to come down and face me?" On closer inspection, he hadn't emerged from the fire unscathed; one side of his face was badly burnt and his left hand was covered in so many open cuts and burns it was a wonder he could still use it. "You have something of mine, bastard-and I'd like it back."

"Follow me." Jon said, glancing back at Sansa. With that he braced himself between the rope and the wall and climbed down as quickly as he could-finally falling the last few feet. The impact was jarring, certainly, but he managed to keep his balance and his sword raised. "I'm afraid you'll never be getting it. She's not yours, Bolton-and she never was."

"She bears my name. We were married in this very castle, Snow-the gods can bear witness to that. By all laws, she is my wife-and if you continue to withhold her from me, you will suffer the consequences."

"Assuming you aren't burned alive by dragonfire first."

"Ah yes-the Dragon Queen. What did you promise her in exchange for her dragons? Do you sleep with her-was she looking for a northerner to quench her fire? I can't see you landing a woman any other way." Jon prayed he wouldn't lose his cool and and simply tear the man's head off.

"You know by now you won't win. How can you-your forces are scattered, your castle is in ruins, and you have nothing to defend yourself?"

Ramsay shrugged, still sickeningly calm. "If a contest of skill is what you want, then so be it." He drew his own sword, brandishing a wooden shield painted with the flayed man of his house menacingly. "The winner gets to keep your sister."

There was no contest; Jon had fought his fair share of enemies, from his earliest training dummies in these very same courtyards to the undead beyond the Wall. Ramsay didn't stand a chance; he was able to get in one halfhearted strike and a couple of weak parrys before Jon was able to disarm him with one smooth move. The sword sailed across the yard, where Martyn picked it up easily and examined it as if wondering how nice it would be to have a sword like that hanging at his side. _You're welcome to it._ The shield was gone with another three strikes and the Bastard of Bolton was on his knees in two more, blood running from his nose and the other cuts on his face, staining the white snow red. "I win."

Ramsay smirked, showing a calculating smile made even more menacing with blood staining his teeth. "Finish me off, Crow-and enjoy your victory while it lasts. Enjoy your woman-though you must know full well she'll never love you. Not when she has to marry to consolidate her grip on the throne. Not when she'll go crazy like her father and the whole realm will tremble. It's probably in your best interests just to finish her off yourself."

Jon felt a wave of unexpected rage wash over him and he would have had no problem running him through with a sword right there-but suddenly he felt a hand on his shoulder and Sansa stepped forward, eyes glittering with fury. "He won't finish you off. I will." From within the folds of her cloak she pulled something sharp and metal-a dagger.

Ramsay smiled again, despite the pain he must surely have been in. "My wife. I knew you'd return."

Sansa grinned back-her grin equally dark and equally malicious. It surprised Jon; he had never seen her look like that, like she actually relished watching a man's blood bleed from his body. "I am Sansa _Stark_ -and I want you to listen to me for once." Longclaw jutted into Ramsay's throat, keeping him silent. His eyes widened as he realized what she was going to do, but it was too late-and Jon certainly wasn't going to stop her.

The dagger stabbed into the soft flesh just below his collarbone. "This is for my wedding night." Another, to his rib cage. "This is for seizing Winterfell for your own and defiling its name." Another, to the stomach. "This is for sending your dogs after me." Another, to the side. "This is for what happened to Theon." And a final stab, to the heart. "And this is for the Red Wedding. The North remembers." She slit his throat for good measure and let the knife drop to the ground, both her hands and its blade slick with blood. Ramsay's body was nearly soaked with more of the thick red substance, pooling around him until the snow was saturated with it. They stood around it for a minute, silently preserving the moment, until another dragon roar from high above them made Jon remember again, sharply, that they weren't out of danger yet.

"Follow me." Jon said, taking a moment to check his bearings. The battle was all but over; Bolton forces were scattering faster than the Stark forces could capture them and the dragons had flown away, destruction over. By the time the sun rose, the Stark banner would hang from the ramparts and rebuilding efforts would begin in earnest. Despite all doubts, they'd won-though the real battles had hardly begun.

Sansa fell in step beside him and squeezed his hand as they crossed to the camp, which was still lit and busy even at such a late hour. "Thank you, Jon."

"You didn't think I would just abandon you, did I? We're siblings, aren't we?"

She sighed. "Yes, yes we are. The same blood flows through our veins-even if our mothers are not the same. And I know I was terrible to you when we were children and I'm sorry for that. You gave me our home back and you saved my life-you deserve all of the gratitude I can give you."

"Don't criticize yourself too much. We were both children then-but we're adults now. We can start anew-and it seems like we'll have to, if we are to face the battles to come." The first for King's Landing, the second for the fate of humanity itself.

They passed the ramparts at the exact second the Stark flag was unfurled and a deafening cheer went up from the surrounding camp and everyone inside of it. Winterfell was finally theirs-and as far as Jon was concerned, that would never change.

~FAS~

Tyrion Lannister was really starting to hate the Dothraki.

First of all, they didn't want to interact with anyone outside of their tribe except for Daenerys. Which really wasn't helpful now that she had decided she was just going to up and leave the entire operation to secure some Northern votes of confidence-and while Tyrion wasn't going to say that this was not a good strategic move, he wished she could have waited until she'd made her actual landing in Westeros. But that would be too simple, of course.

Then there was the fact that they stank-probably due to their horses. None of the crew wanted to so much as go near the Dothraki with anything less than a mask. He'd offered them the equipment time and time again to clean up after their animals but they wouldn't take it-something about how horse excrement would grant them good luck on the cursed waters of the Narrow Sea.

They also chose to practice their battle cries at night-and when tribes of Dothraki were practicing their battle cries, no one in the entire fleet was able to sleep soundly.

Of course, they drew all the lunatics directly to them-which was going to make it harder for Tyrion to sneak them into Blackwater Bay without causing too much of a fuss.

"My lord, there is someone here who wishes to talk to you."

This was the last thing Tyrion wanted to deal with just after dawn. "Can it wait?"

"He is very insistent that he talk with you. He says he has come a long way and he will not be denied for all his trouble."

"He can wait like everybody else." There were all kinds of people seeking out the fleet now that plans had actually been set in motion-mainly sellsword companies trying to get in on the cause before they became the enemy. In just two weeks, their ranks had swelled almost exponentially-although Tyrion had significantly lightened the royal treasury by paying off the companies. The more soldiers they could have on their side when they marched on the Red Keep the better-though first they were heading to Dorne. He had no doubt that they would get what they asked for; the Lannisters and the Martells were not on good terms in any sense of the word after his niece Myrcella had been murdered on her way back to King's Landing. The news had saddened Tyrion, even though it would help Daenerys greatly; he had liked Myrcella. She'd been sweet and kind, not at all like Joffrey. Then again, war claimed the lives of everyone-both the worthy and the unworthy.

The herald shifted from foot to foot nervously. "Well?" Tyrion said impatiently. "Why are you still here? Is there something more you have to tell me?" He couldn't wait for Daenerys to return; he was sick of dealing with incompetents. He tried to be as patient as he could; but patience had never been one of his God-given talents.

"Well, you see…" It was obvious he was having trouble getting the words out. "I believe the man may be a ghost."

 _This makes things slightly more interesting._ "And what could you possibly mean by that?"

"He says his name is Aegon Targaryen."

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	6. Winterfell

**So, I** ** _finally_** **decided to update this again. I really wasn't sure if I ever would, but season 6 has given me a new burst of inspiration and I decided to start working on this fic! I'm a few chapters ahead so hopefully there won't be any more incredibly long hiatuses. I don't know if there's anyone who's even still reading this; I think I last updated in the fall. That's almost a year ago!**

 **As a side note, I'd like to say that the world of Westeros is incredibly expansive and encompasses many characters. I do everything I can to make sure this story is as accurate as it can be in terms of character and place, but I acknowledge that sometimes things may slip through the cracks or fly under the radar that I may have forgotten about or simply not even have been aware of. I've read all of the books, which is where I look a lot of the time for concrete characterization, but they're extremely long books and I can't remember every single detail. However, I do research as much as I can-I always have the books nearby when I'm working on this and** ** _The World of Ice and Fire_** **is an invaluable resource as well. But if you do find any discrepancies, that's why.**

 **Disclaimer: See Chapter 1**

 **I think that's all the new updates. Enjoy!**

A week later, Arya's sight returned-in time for her first assassination. She fell asleep one night seeing nothing but blackness and woke the next morning to sunlight so blinding she had to bury her head in her pillow until she got used to it.

Jaqen found her in the Hall of Faces, where she was cleaning more bodies. "A Girl has been given a task." A group of Westerosian traders were staying in a nearby inn, passing through from Volantis on their way home. She was to give one of them the gift-a man named Ford.

She knew the inn in question-it served fine fare at reasonable rates, and its Myrrish owners were kind enough to strangers and orphans. It was easy for her to go inside and buy a bowl of soup, nursing it in a small corner booth as she watched the traders talk in loud voices over tankards of ale and loaves of bread. Every so often she would wriggle her boot to make sure her dagger was still carefully wrapped in its protective lining, ready to be used when she needed it. It didn't take her long to find Ford-an aging man with a bald ring on his head and deep purple tattoos on his cheeks. All she had to do was sit and wait for her moment to arrive. So she did.

She couldn't help listening to them talk; there was really nothing else she could do, eating her soup as slowly as she could to make it last. However kind the innkeepers were, it was a market day and she would be kicked out if she wasn't eating to give her seat to another group of traders. At first, her prey talked about people she didn't care about in the free cities-but all too soon, talk turned to Westeros.

"Heard the Queen is standing trial before the faith." one man, a Tyroshi by the looks of his violet beard, said as he buttered another piece of bread. "The young king outlawed trial by combat."

"Signed his mother's death warrant, didn't he?" someone else cut in. A murmur of assent ran around the edge of the table; obviously that didn't seem to concern any of them terribly. Arya felt a grim satisfaction; if she couldn't kill Cersei Lannister, at least someone else would. "Apparently the young king is becoming quite taken in the faith of the Seven. I've heard tell that the High Sparrow holds just as much sway over him as his wife does."

"Maybe he can convince him to abdicate the throne. Wouldn't that be nice? The seven independent kingdoms of Westeros?" The men laughed loudly; as if that would ever happen. If Tommen ever did give up his throne, there would be dozens of people waiting in the shadows to take his place.

"What's the use?" Ford said. "It wouldn't stay that way for long. The Dragon Queen will sail for King's Landing, if she isn't already on her way. She commands an army of Dothraki and the Unsullied-and she seems to be making alliances in Westeros as well. It wouldn't take long for her to sack the city." Arya thought about that for a second. She'd heard of this 'Dragon Queen' before, but only in whispers in dark alleyways-and she wasn't sure what she thought about her. Half the tales seemed to paint her as a murderess while the other half praised her as a savior. The red priests were always proclaiming she was the hero sent by the Red God to save the world; Arya doubted that. More likely she was just another player of the great game, just like everyone else-who cared only about power, not the people she was supposed to rule.

"She's in the North, helping the northerners to take back Winterfell." That caught Arya's attention, pulling her from her thoughts. _Winterfell..._ the word seemed like it came from a long way away, perhaps from a different lifetime. Could it be true that only a few years before she had lived there, playing in the godswood with her brothers? Had it really been her home? "I hear the bastard, Jon Snow, has promised to swear allegiance if they succeed."

Arya nearly spilled what remained of her soup. _He lies._ Jon was dead-everyone knew that. In spite of herself, she leaned forward so she could hear more-handing over another silver to the innkeeper to buy a loaf of bread.

Apparently, one of the other men felt the same way. "That's bullshit. Jon Snow is dead-murdered by his 'brothers', wasn't he? And now you mean to tell me he's not only alive but leading a battle?"

"It's true." someone else retorted. "Word out of Castle Black is that a red priestess brought him back to life. She says he's the fulfillment of some kind of ancient prophecy. I'm not sure that I buy all of that religious crap, but...he's alive. I've seen him."

The men pestered him with questions, determined to know whether he had changed (apparently he hadn't, outwardly at least), whether he was still going to stay with the Night's Watch (apparently he wasn't), and whether he was going to legitimize himself and rule Winterfell (the man didn't know). Arya listened in as well, heart beating so fast she could feel it throwing itself against her rib cage. The very idea that Jon could still be alive was absolutely ludicrous...but the man spoke so earnestly that she found herself believing him despite it-or perhaps because of it. For the first time in weeks she felt a small sliver of hope that maybe she wasn't the last living Stark. And if Jon was legitimized, he wouldn't be a bastard anymore. He could rule Winterfell and stand up to the Lannisters-there would once again be a king in the north! For a moment the possibilities overwhelmed her and she became so distracted she almost didn't realize that part of the group was peeling off to go to a brothel. However, a few remained behind-Ford included. So she waited too.

The men weren't talking about anything interesting anymore, so she allowed her mind to wander-though inevitably it always came back to Jon, who (if what they were saying was actually true) was fighting to take back their ancestral home and fighting by the side of a warrior queen with three dragons. It sounded like he needed her help.

Despite what Waif said, she'd never really been No One. She'd always been Arya Stark, deep down-and Arya Stark would do whatever it took to reunite with her family.

The day wound to a close and the candles in the inn began to burn low as more and more drunkards staggered upstairs to their rooms. Ford and his companions didn't seem to notice; they kept talking and talking, while Arya sat in the firelight eating what remained of her bread extremely slowly and quietly formulating a plan.

Finally she watched them rise as if to leave, heads soft with drink and eyes glassy with fatigue. It was almost too easy to walk past them and bump into Ford lightly on her way, deliberately dropping her satchel as she did so. "Sorry!"

"Quite all right, miss." Ford, chivalrous as ever, knelt to help her gather her belongings. The others walked on ahead; she wondered if they'd even realized their companion was missing. As soon as their backs were turned, she pulled the dagger out of her boot and moved it across her victim's throat in one smooth motion. For a moment Ford stood startled as blood dribbled down from his neck and into his mouth, but by the next second he had slumped to the ground unmoving. Arya felt a tinge of regret as she left the inn as silently as she had entered it; he seemed like a good man.

She walked along in quiet contemplation, stopping once to retrieve Needle before she entered the imposing doors of the House of Black and White. Despite the late hour a few people still languished beside its 'healing' water. She didn't look at any of them as she passed, walking straight through to the Hall of Faces where she knew Jaqen would be waiting for her.

"Was a girl successful?" he asked quietly, eyes searing into hers as if to make sure she was truthful. She wondered if he could see in her eyes what she was planning to do even before she spoke.

"Yes-but a girl is not No One. A girl is Arya Stark-and she is going home." She stared back at him evenly, daring him to contradict her. Instead, he nodded once as if in acknowledgment, and she walked back into the Braavosi streets. She had paid her debt and given the gift-but now she could stay no longer. Jon was still alive-and she wouldn't let her family down again.

She found the nearest ship bound for Westeros and booked passage for one, using the last of the gold the Faceless Men had given her.

~FAS~

The camp was a hive of activity when Jon, Sansa, and the others finally reached it. The wounded had been spread out wherever there was space, in tents and on the grass, and healers bustled back and forth doing what they could to save the injured. Cheers went up whenever they saw Sansa, with cries of "The Queen in the North!" and "Long live House Stark!"

"Go tell the cooks to heat up some soup." Jon told Satin and Martyn, quickly taking charge of the situation. "Distribute it to anyone who needs it. Make sure the healers are well supplied, take a tally of the lost and wounded, and then report back to me." They both nodded and ran off to complete their respective tasks while he turned to Sansa. "Do you need anything, my lady?"

She rolled her eyes. "Call me Sansa, Jon. You _did_ save my life, after all."

"You must be exhausted. Would you like me to find somewhere for you to rest?"

"No; if it's all the same to you, I would like to meet our savior." She glanced upwards at the morning sky, where Drogon and Rhaegal were finally settling down for the morning. "Sleep can wait. What will be done with Ramsay's body?"

He couldn't help smiling as he realized what she was asking. "Why do you ask?"

"Would it be possible to feed it to his dogs? He's been starving them, you know."

"I can't imagine a more fitting way to dispose of his remains." His eyes, flicking through the crowd and looking for familiar faces, suddenly landed on Annaliese-a girl he knew had been assigned to the Queen's tent. Quickly, he beckoned her over; she came with a smile. "Please inform Queen Daenerys that we have arrived and will meet her in her tent."

Annaliese laughed. "I can try, but I don't think she's here. When the Stark banner was raised she started searching the incoming soldiers. I believe she is looking for you."

Almost as if she'd overheard Daenerys rounded the corner of a nearby tent and, catching sight of them, came over immediately. "Thank you, Annaliese." Jon added, almost as an afterthought. The girl nodded and disappeared back into the throng of people while he found himself looking the Queen over for any injuries she may have sustained during the battle. She looked perfectly well, as far as he could see.

"Congratulations, Lord Snow." she said with a smile as she fell in step beside him. He noticed how Sansa's eyes widened imperceptibly; he'd felt her shock before. For their entire lives, they had been told that the Targaryens were utterly extinct-the fact that they weren't was still hard to stomach, even now. "I believe the castle is now yours."

"I'm afraid that honor belongs to my sister-Daenerys, this is Sansa...Bolton, lady of Winterfell." _Though not for long._ "Sansa, this is Queen Daenerys Targaryen of Meereen-and soon to be ruler of Westeros."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, you Majesty." Sansa said with a little curtsy. Jon saw a glimpse of something in her eyes that he hadn't seen there for a very long time-an imprint of the little girl she had once been, who loved playing dress up and aspired to be a queen herself. "Thank you for coming to our aid. The North's army is yours to command, however you see fit."

Daenerys gave her a genuine smile. "Thank you, Lady Stark." Jon noticed that she didn't so much as say 'Bolton', perhaps indicating he had come and gone with no real consequence in the Stark lineage. "I expect you will need time to rebuild your palace. If you will allow me to intrude on your hospitality for a couple of days so we can work out the technical logistics, I will take your men south with me."

Of course, Sansa wasn't about to refuse. "It would be my pleasure, your Majesty. I'm afraid that the castle isn't in the best condition and your accommodations may not be as...expensive as you may have liked-"

"In light of what has happened, I care little for accommodations-and if it helps, I will aid in rebuilding efforts however I can. I look forward to becoming your ally, formally." Jon realized, with a quiet sigh of relief, that any worries he may have had about whether or not the two would get along had been thankfully needless.

Suddenly another loud roar rent the morning air in two and they turned to see Viserion in the distance, still a small dot on the horizon but growing closer with every passing second. His brothers took to the air to meet him, shrieking raucously as their powerful wings sent a cold gale of wind rushing through the camp. Daenerys followed them as well. "He must have Tyrion's reply. I hope he isn't too upset with me about this." She was swallowed up by the crowd; Jon was tempted to follow her, but decided against it.

Sansa just looked confused. "She's working with Tyrion?"

"Exactly what I thought. Apparently, he's become one of her most trusted advisors."

"He gets around, doesn't he?"

"...Yes, I suppose he does. Then again, he's always been smart-maybe even smarter than the rest of us."

"The Queen seems kind enough. Do you think she can retake King's Landing?"

"She commands an extremely large khalasar, an army of Unsullied and former slaves, half a dozen companies of sellswords-and now, it would seem, the North. I believe she will try to parley with Dorne before she launches an attack on the Red Keep itself, and the Lannisters and Tyrells are in quite a state to be mounting a powerful defense against _dragons._ I would say her chances are good."

Sansa shook her head in disbelief. "I always thought dragons were fairy tales that Old Nan told Bran to help him fall asleep, like Brandon the Builder."

"We all did-but now it seems they're anything but make believe. The world is changing, Sansa; the only way to survive is to change with it."

They stood on the chilly hilltop for a while, watching Stark forces run out the last of the Boltons and set about cleaning the castle from top to bottom, before Jon suggested they finally go inside. This time, as soon as he set foot indoors, he knew he was truly and completely home. It felt so good to say after such a long time.

~FAS~

Tyrion's letter was short and to the point.

 _Your Highness,_

 _As it seems you are not in an opportune place to retract your offer of aid to the Starks in their time of need, I suppose we will have to go a few more days without your company. If you succeed, the North will be a powerful ally to have on our side when we reach King's Landing-an advantageous choice for both ourselves and our allies._

 _We will be reaching Dragonstone within the next couple of weeks. Stannis Baratheon's forces are lost and confused; we should be able to take the palace without much of a fight. As you requested, a third of the fleet will be waiting to accompany you to Dorne when you arrive._

 _However, there is one matter that I believe you should know about-two days ago, a young man came to me and said he is Aegon Targaryen, your nephew. As you well know, Aegon supposedly died at the hands of the Lannisters during Robert's Rebellion but this man insists he was rescued and raised in secret, away from prying eyes. I cannot determine whether or not there is any truth to his story, but I have decided to let him stay with us for the time being. When you return, you will be able to judge him for yourself-judge wisely; you have many enemies._

 _Return as swiftly as possible; we will camp at Dragonstone and await your signal there._

 _Most sincerely, Tyrion Lannister_

For a few minutes, Dany just stared at the piece of paper in her hand and waited for the words to rearrange themselves so they would make sense. Aegon had died before she was even born; Viserys had told her the story of the murders of their nephew and niece again and again-how Princess Rhaenys had been dragged out from under her bed and died screaming and Prince Aegon's head had been bashed to bits against a wall. They'd seen the human remains. There was no way this man, whoever he was, could possibly be who he professed to be-and yet, if he was...and if he also wanted to reclaim the Iron Throne...her claim could be in danger.

And she certainly hadn't come all this way and suffered this much just so she could hand the crown to a ghost.

She didn't realize how long she'd been outside, watching the dragons wheel and play in the sky like children (she'd made sure Viserion had gotten plenty of attention after his long trip) until Jon came up beside her. "The morning meal is being served in Winterfell's great hall-or what remains of it, that is."

"My apologies. I lost track of time." The sun was already up; the sky was a deep, wintry blue covered in clouds. Together they began to walk back to the castle; she hadn't realized how hungry she was, but now that she could smell the food wafting out of Winterfell's front doors, which had been thrown open in celebration, she was suddenly ravenous. "Were you hurt in the fighting last night?"

He shrugged almost indifferently. "A few scratches. Nothing terrible. And yourself?"

"Considering I spent nearly the entire battle here at the camp, there wasn't really an occasion for me to get hurt." She sighed; it had been a long night and she hadn't gotten much rest. "It won't be that way when I reach Westeros. I will fight my conquest on dragonback, as my ancestors did when they first reached the Seven Kingdoms."

Jon imagined that would be a powerful sight, especially for those on the ground. "I promise we will not waylay you long-it was selfish to ask you to aid us in this battle in the first place. But...I thank you for it. After what happened to Stannis, Ramsay had successfully beaten the rest of the North into submission. Without your help, I don't believe we could have succeeded."

"You can thank me when King's Landing is under Targaryen rule once again." she replied. "The Lannisters command a powerful fighting force-the more troops I have, the better. I suppose Sansa's marriage must be annulled before she can formally be named Lady of Winterfell?"

"Yes, seeing as my father has no trueborn children left. She will then be able to marry among the northern lords as she and her advisors see fit to make strong political ties." He sighed. "The Stark name will die out. Sansa will be the last Stark ruler of the North."

"I could legitimize you, if you'd like." She said it before she really thought about it; she knew how important it was to preserve bloodlines-she was the product of familial incest and (assuming Aegon was a fake, as he almost certainly was) the last Targaryen; her name wouldn't last very long either.

Jon looked up in surprise for a moment and seemed to consider, but he shook his head anyway. "I can't say it's not a tempting offer...but I'm not meant to be the King in the North. That was always my brother, Robb-it would feel like I was insulting his memory, in a way. Sansa will be a strong and capable ruler and I have complete faith in her. I'm better on the battlefield than I am in diplomacy, to be perfectly honest. Sometimes...dynasties come to an end. It's a fact. Some other lineage will take its place, and the circle will continue. Nothing truly lasts forever, does it?"

"No. I suppose not." Her family's reign certainly hadn't-and neither had the Usurper's. "But it may rise again, given time." With that, they reached Winterfell's gates and walked inside-passing a courtyard littered with corpses in both Stark and Bolton livery. The castle felt strange and even foreboding-never had she been so aware of the fact that she was a dragon among wolves and certainly didn't belong. Everywhere she looked the grey face of a direwolf seemed to stare out at her, reminding her that the Targaryens were still newcomers compared to the family that had ruled the North for thousands of years. But Jon never once slowed his pace and neither did she. He seemed more at ease here as they passed the torn tapestries and passageways ringed in char; he was home.

 _Home._ What a strange word. Even after all this time, she still didn't think she knew what it meant. She was beginning to think she never would. Was it the place she was meant to be, like the Red Keep, or the place where she felt happy-like the house with the red door and the lemon tree outside the window that had almost faded away into memory completely? Viserys had his own ideas, but she wasn't sure she really believed him now after she'd traveled so much.

But she'd be lying if she said she wasn't glad that Jon had been able to return to his.

Just then, a page ran up to them both and nearly tripped over his own feet in his race to bow. "Your Highness, Lord Snow, you must come to the raven tower with me quickly-there's news from the citadel!" Exchanging a look of confusion, Dany and Jon followed him outside and up to the ravens' roost. There were about half a dozen ravens ready to be sent off with letters-and one other raven that was snow white. It carried no message, but she realized what it meant clear enough.

"When did this arrive?" Jon said quickly.

"Just this morning, my lord." the raven keeper replied, dropping a handful of corn kernels on the ground for the birds to fight over like dogs. The white raven however remained serenely affixed upon its perch, looking down on its fellows almost contemptuously.

Jon nodded, face troubled. He let out a sigh and turned to leave, saying "I'll have to tell the Maester. We need to start shoring up our supplies of food and wood." He seemed to forget Dany was still alongside him until they were halfway down the staircase. "I trust you know what a white raven from the Citadel means. We haven't seen one in a very long time-and I don't believe it's a good thing that we're seeing it now."

"It's officially winter, isn't it?" she replied. "And that means-"

"Wights. The Wall can keep them out for now-but I'm not sure how much longer it will protect us."

A shiver ran down her spine that had nothing to do with the cold.

~FAS~

Reconstruction efforts began almost immediately after the survivors of the battle nearly overran the castle-and there was plenty to do. There were walls that had been burnt by dragonfire to rebuild, tapestries to restore, floors to clean, and provisions to sustain-almost everyone was busy with something.

As soon as she reached the palace Sansa took a long, hot bath. She imagined she still stank of the godswood and she took time carefully washing every hair follicle and bit of skin she had, desperate to feel clean again. By the time she finally felt she had completely ridden herself of Ramsay's filth the water had grown cold but she didn't care; her new maids brought her a new dress embroidered with her house sigil that was warm and dry and she brushed her long auburn hair until it shone. Pinning a direwolf broach to the front of her dress she surveyed herself in the mirror and nodded appreciatively; for the first time in years she truly looked like a Stark of Winterfell. She finally felt she was back where she was meant to be.

Sansa and Jon spent the rest of the day in council with the Northern lords that had fought by their side in the battle-the Mormonts, a few smaller houses, and a handful of Black Brothers and wildlings (the majority of the latter of which had left again for the Wall as soon as the battle was won). Everyone seemed to have a different idea about what Sansa should do to remedy the destruction Ramsay had left behind him and she was constantly being bombarded with them, but she didn't mind. This was her place: a Stark of Winterfell, not a Bolton's property. The maester set to work on the annulment papers as soon as he could and had them finished within three hours. Bolton prisoners were rounded up and locked in Winterfell's dungeons. Needless to say, by the time night fell she was exhausted.

Jon drifted in and out of the room every now and then, taking time to take stock of the dead and injured, make sure all of the builders were on task, and ensure that Daenerys settled in well to her new quarters. They'd managed to find a guest room in good condition; in fact, it was where Queen Cersei had stayed the last time she came to Winterfell. A cleaning crew had quickly scrubbed the walls, washed the floors, and placed new sheets on the bed frame before Daenerys had been allowed to go inside-where she'd remained for most of the day, occasionally going out to explore the rest of the palace but more or less staying in her room and allowing the Starks to do what they needed to rebuild. Jon placed an honor guard outside the doors to her chamber, so she would be protected when he couldn't be there himself. This was a strategic move; if what Jon was telling her was true and the Dragon Queen died on their watch-especially if there was even the slightest doubt that they had been involved in some way-the crippled North would have to face a powerful horde of enemies seeking vengeance. And yet Sansa couldn't help but wonder if perhaps Jon wasn't just doing it out of a sense of duty. She'd noticed the way he seemed to leave more and more often the darker the night got and how he glanced at their royal visitor when they ate together at mealtimes. She certainly wouldn't say anything; if there was anything there, she'd let him figure it out for himself. Still, she had to say it was entertaining; Jon acted like a five year old around girls older than twelve, especially the pretty ones.

"My lady?" She snapped back to focus on the matters at hand. The members of her 'small council' were all looking at her in various states of bleariness; it had been a long day and most people hadn't slept the night before.

"Yes, Willard?"

"I would say we have made more than satisfying progress today and I would like to suggest that we reconvene tomorrow morning."

"Your request is granted. Is the Great Hall still full?" Other people that had traveled with the camp-primarily healers, cooks, and soldiers' families-had been in and out for most of the day, either for a hot meal or to get out of the cold winter air.

"Yes-members of the Night's Watch are distributing tea and blankets as we speak. It will be a bit of a squeeze, but everyone will fit." someone else piped up.

"Very well-then I see no reason to trouble anyone further when it's obvious we're all exhausted. I now call this meeting of our small council adjourned. We will reconvene tomorrow morning." There was a general shuffling of chairs as everyone else got up and left; everyone, that is, except Jon.

"You're doing very well so far, Sansa." he said, patting her on the shoulder comfortingly.

"Thank you. Of course, you deserve some credit too. After all, if it weren't for you we wouldn't be here."

A faint blush colored his neck and the back of his ears. "Daenerys offered to legitimize me earlier today. She has the authority-she's queen of Meereen, after all."

 _So we're on a first name basis now, are we?_ "What did you tell her?"

"I...told her that I didn't need it. You deserve to rule Winterfell more than I do."

"By rights it should be yours, Jon. If you want it-"

"That's just it, Sansa. I...don't think I do." She wondered what had brought this on. She wasn't blind; she knew Jon had spent most of his life wishing he could have just half of the prestige and adoration that she and her other trueborn siblings had taken for granted-and now here he was, staring legitimization in the face with no vows preventing him from improving his status...and he still wouldn't take the offer. "I have other matters I have to attend to."

She suddenly wondered if he was going to leave her. They'd just been reunited; they couldn't part so quickly. "What do you mean?"

"I need to spread the word to the rest of the Seven Kingdoms-the White Walkers are coming and if we don't act quickly we have no chance of stopping them. It's the only way we can assure our own safety-and I can't do that from here at Winterfell."

"Where do you mean to go?"

He wouldn't look at her. "By your leave, I would lead the troops back to Dragonstone for the Queen. While I'm there I can pick new men for the Night's Watch from among her company-we're still woefully understaffed. I could cover a great distance and spread the word to dozens-maybe even hundreds. We need to arm ourselves, Sansa. We are out of time-and out of luck. The dead are coming, and we must be ready when they do."

She hesitated, torn. On one hand, she didn't think she could stand to lose him again-not when there was even the smallest chance that he would die along the way. He was the only family she had left and the only link to a past she had left far behind her. But on the other, she almost felt she would be cruel if she kept him back. The Northerners would need a strong leader and Jon wasn't a bad strategist; he'd also have a chance to meet hundreds of people and maybe even save their lives. If he was willing to remain a bastard, a title he'd always hated, he must have been very passionate indeed about his cause. "I understand. When do you leave?"

"Whenever the Queen does-sooner rather than later, most likely. But I'm not going to leave until I'm sure you'll be safe." A warm tingle filled her body to know that she wouldn't be alone; at least, not until she had to be.

"You'll come back, won't you?"

"Of course. It's only a battle. You know, I think it'll be nice to head south for a change-it won't be so cold."

Sansa remembered her own journey to King's Landing-she'd been so naive then, thinking that Joffrey actually loved her. And she'd been so excited, too; she'd worked diligently on her needlework, looking out the carriage window at everything they passed. It was all new and exciting; growing up, she'd been to other castles certainly but certainly nothing past the Neck. Now Jon would get to experience that feeling too-though hopefully his journey would have a far better ending than hers. "You'll love it, Jon. Truly." She tried to stifle a yawn but it slipped out anyway, and he quirked a smile as he realized her exhaustion had finally caught up with her.

"Get some sleep, Sansa." he said, walking her back to her old bedroom-for the night, at least. Standing in the bedroom, she was shocked to realize that nothing had changed; it still looked like it had before King Robert's arrival, with the picture of Symeon Star Eyes on the wall and her grey and white quilt embroidered with leaping direwolves that she'd had since she was just a baby. It belonged to a different era of her life; an era that had long since come to an end.

"You too." she replied, unlacing her boots and climbing under the duvet fully clothed-far too exhausted to change. "Don't stay up too late."

He gave her another small smile. "Don't worry. I won't." With that he closed the door, throwing the room into shadow. Sansa couldn't help snuggling deeper into the covers; though it had been years and the room still made her feel like a stranger, it felt familiar in a strange way-she remembered the way the shadows fell along the walls and the way moonlight (and sunlight) seeped in around the edges of the curtains covering the windowsill from when she was a small child and she had woken up afraid of the dark. However, for once she knew she would sleep peacefully.

Lying in the dark and quiet, the day's events caught up with her all at once. Before she could so much as say her prayers, unconsciousness stole over her and she fell into a deep and dreamless sleep on her first night as Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell.

~A~

Jon was so tired he could barely walk straight, but even so he went to check on their royal visitor one last time.

Of the six men appointed to her honor guard, two were on duty. The other four had claimed a small antechamber a few doors down and were out cold. He nodded to each of them in turn. "Is she asleep?"

"I don't think so." Pyp said. "There's been a lot of movement-papers rustling and the like."

Jon nodded. "Why don't the two of you go get a hot drink from the kitchens? I think I can relieve you of service for a few minutes." The two men nodded their thanks and headed down a back stairwell while he knocked softly on the heavy wooden door. "Your Highness? May I come in?"

There was a rustling of paper and then the door opened as Daenerys said "As you wish, my lord." Her hair hung loose and undone around her shoulders and she kept a couple of furs wrapped around her small frame to protect against the cold. A leather bound book that looked considerably old lay on her bed, still open to the page she'd left off on. "How is your sister?"

"Settling in. She's been in meetings with our bannermen all day; we believe we can expect more help from the other houses of the North now that the Dreadfort is vacant. They should be making their way to us soon, once our ravens arrive. I apologize for the place still being a bit of a mess-"

"You're doing the best you can, Jon. I appreciate that. Besides, the library has some very interesting books on the history of the Seven Kingdoms." She gestured to the book on her bed. "Everyone here has been very accommodating."

"Yes, well...I believe they're all a bit frightened of you-or, more specifically, your dragons."

"They will only burn who I tell them to. So long as your men stay loyal, they will have nothing to fear from them." She glanced out the window, looking at the First Keep across the courtyard-the one, Jon remembered sharply, that Bran had fallen from so long ago. "This place feels...strange, in a way. I'm not meant to be here-dragons are creatures of fire and light, not ice and shadow."

Jon imagined he would feel the same way once he reached the south. "I suppose in castles with so much history, like this one, the old ghosts never really leave." That suddenly gave him an idea. "May I show you something?" She didn't look too tired; indeed, she got up and followed him out of the room, looking interested.

The Great Hall was full of people, as the new steward of Winterfell (much of the original staff had been killed when Theon burned the palace; he was still getting used to all of the new faces) had said it would be. People crowded every square inch; some even going so far as to sleep under the tables. Babies cried, adults clustered in small groups and talked in low voices, and a few exhausted healers went back and forth with bandages and hot possets. The lights had been dimmed and the entire room appeared hazy; Jon felt like he was walking through a dream as he skirted around the perimeter of the room with Daenerys close behind him. Occasionally they had to step over someone, but they went largely unnoticed as they turned into a small side corridor and down the long staircase that led to the crypts.

The crypts seemed untouched; Jon wondered if anyone had even been aware of their existence. The same statues of his ancestors stretched away into the darkness; to the other side lay the empty crypts, ready to embrace him and his siblings. Remarkably, nothing looked damaged; as he lit the brazier near the door and the wide space was flooded with warm light he realized it looked nearly unchanged since the last time he'd visited it before he'd gone to the Wall. "These are the ghosts-I don't think they've ever really left the castle, even though they died hundreds of years ago."

Daenerys came to stand beside him, eyes flicking over the long row of graves stretching away into the darkness. "Do you know all of these people?"

"Most of them. When I was younger, Maester Luwin taught me all of their names and what they were remembered for-but I'm afraid to say I didn't pay as much attention to him as I could have."

"You were a child. Children never do."

He laughed. "I suppose that's true enough. My younger sister Arya hated her studies. She always thought that learning about old dead kings was useless and she would do whatever she could to get out of her lessons. When she was younger she used to run to the godswood and hide for hours. Robb and I would have to spend hours searching for her." His grin faded as he remembered that Arya hadn't been seen in years and had most likely been slaughtered at the Red Keep just like everyone else in his family.

"It sounds like you had a nice childhood." she replied, drifting over to examine a nearby crypt emblazoned with the name Lyanna Stark. A wreath of flowers had been laid across its top some time ago; all of the petals were shrivelled and broken, barely more than dust.

He nodded, struck with a sudden sharp pinch of loneliness. They should all be here too; Ned, Robb, Arya, Bran, Rickon, even Catelyn. Ned should never have gone South. If he didn't, then none of this would have happened; everyone would still be alive. The War of the Five Kings might still have been raging on, but it wouldn't have affected them this far north. They would still be happy and still be together. "The very best." Deciding that it was better to direct the conversation from him until he felt more stable, he asked "What about you?"

"I was on the run for most of my life-my older brother and I would go from city to city to keep ahead of the assassins he insisted were going to kill us. We never really settled anywhere-and we never had any money. They used to call him the Beggar King. Viserys was a good brother, sometimes. When I was younger he used to tell me stories about our family and some Westerosian folk tales our mother told him before I was born. Those were his good days. On his bad days he could be cruel...but he looked out for me, most of the time." He didn't press further; she obviously didn't like talking about it. "Secretly, I always wanted a sister who was close to my age, like you are with Robb."

"It's not _that_ great. They know everything about you-and sometimes they'll hold that knowledge over your head if they want you to do something for them." It was a hollow argument; Robb had known him just as well, if not better, than he'd known himself-and he'd felt the same way. They'd provided comfort for each other time and time again-Robb had ensured that Jon never felt alone. He'd been extremely lucky.

He was glad when Daenerys changed the subject, still looking at the placard in front of her. "Who is she?"

"My aunt. She was betrothed to Robert Baratheon before…" _Your older brother kidnapped and raped her._

"Her death was the spark that set off the Usurper's rebellion, wasn't it?"

"...Well, yes. Among other things. But I don't think Robert-or my father-ever truly got over her death. They always left flowers at her grave-blue roses, because those were her favorites." He kept walking along the row of tombs. "Rickard Stark...that was my grandfather. Brandon Stark was my father's older brother." _Your father murdered them both, in King's Landing._ The Starks just didn't seem to have a good track record with the Iron Throne. The next few tombs were more recent and his throat felt thick as he continued with "My father, Eddard...his wife, Catelyn Tully...Robb...and my two younger brothers, Bran and Rickon." The rest of the tombs were empty, waiting for him and his sisters to join the others. "My other sister, Arya,went missing after Ned's beheading. Doubtless she's dead by now but her body was never returned so she doesn't have a proper grave marker." Maybe she never would.

Daenerys placed a hand on his gently as if in comfort before she pulled it away again. She didn't say anything, but then again she didn't need to. He appreciated the gesture anyway because he could only imagine how much she loathed the Starks-after all, Ned and Robert had destroyed her entire family. When he was growing up, Jon hadn't thought that much about it-Ned didn't like to talk about what happened during the Rebellion, but he always said that he'd only acted for the good of the people of the Seven Kingdoms. King Aerys had been called the Mad King for a reason. He didn't disagree necessarily, but the Targaryen family had been devastated; in saving their family, he had destroyed hers.

He took her hand in hers before he could think better of it and they stood there for a few seconds, alone among the pressing darkness and the invisible presence of a hundred of his ancestors.

By the time he decided they should head back-doubtless everyone would be wondering where they were-the torch had burned down to little more than a stub, doing little to ward away the night's chill.

~FAS~

Jon slept restlessly when he finally managed to drift off. It was either incredibly late or incredibly early depending on how you looked at it; by the time he'd escorted Daenerys- _Dany,_ he corrected himself out of habit-back to her rooms and checked that the palace was peaceful once more, there were only a few hours left until dawn.

What little sleep he did get was plagued with nightmares. He saw a sword that seemed to shine in its own inner light, a girl no older than five with eyes of a pure and icy blue, and a field of perfect blue roses stretching away into a misty distance-accompanied by a woman's voice that whispered " _Promise me, Ned."_ in increasing hysterics until his dream was consumed by fire. All he saw were flames, until he shook himself awake to find sunlight flooding in and a plate of cold meat on his bedside table for breaking his fast.

It had to have been a nightmare. So much had happened on so little sleep; it was no wonder he was seeing things. Shaking his head, he quickly got up and washed his face in the basin across the room-mentally running through a list of things that would have to be accomplished before the day was out. He'd been letting Melisandre's cryptic riddles take over his head; her distractions were something he couldn't afford when everything was still so uncertain.

Even so, he couldn't get the woman's voice out of his head. He couldn't stop wondering why she was so panicked-was she in danger? What did she need to tell him? And why did he get the sick feeling that the voice was familiar to him somehow-not just familiar, but loaded with a secret that could tear his world apart?

He went to find Sansa. Dreams and prophecies could wait. For now, he had other problems to attend to.

 **Last night's finale was explosive (spoilers: both literally and figuratively)! I can't believe we have to wait almost a full year for Season 7!**

 **Review, follow, and favorite! Thanks for reading!**


	7. A Meeting of Lords

**Wow-I'm completely overwhelmed by the support this fic has gotten especially in the last few days! I'm so glad you all enjoy it!**

 **I've been thinking I may make minor alterations to the previous chapters within the coming weeks-probably no narrative changes, but I might try to combine some chapters so they're all about the same length. I think it's also worth mentioning that chapters 9-11 were written before the season finale premiered-and while it will align with canon after that (with some differences, as you'll see in future chapters) there might be a few differences. For example, Davos doesn't yet know what Melisandre did to Shireen last season.**

 **Disclaimer: See Chapter 1**

 **Enjoy!**

In a way, Davos was almost glad Stannis had been killed in the first battle for Winterfell. If he hadn't, there was no telling what the Onion Knight would do to him when he next saw him. He had been instructed to talk to Jon Snow of the Night's Watch, to secure more preparations for their army, but by the time he arrived at Castle Black Jon Snow had already marched south. So he'd had to travel back to Winterfell with a small delegation of Black brothers-and the Red Witch. Where he'd mistrusted her before he now detested her; she kept them all awake for hours every night, praying and chanting, lighting nightfires that seemed to burn the peaceful night sky like an angry bruise. He had never believed in the power of R'hllor before, and after Stannis's resounding defeat he was more sure than ever. He had and always would pray to the Seven-not to a god who demanded sacrifices in order to ensure the sun rose every morning. After weeks of travel round trip, it was nearly unbearable.

He strode up to Winterfell's main gates, which were relatively unguarded. Apparently the castle had been reclaimed only the day before; ravens had been sent out to the Stark bannermen, who would be arriving to treat with the new Queen of the North as soon as possible. And soon after that they would be marching off to fight again, this time for Daenerys Targaryen as she sought to recapture the Red Keep.

The Great Hall was filled with people. Children ran between the wooden tables, laughing; women talked amongst themselves as they let their newborns suckle in one corner, near the blazing fireplace; and a group of men had dug out a few cyvasse boards, teaching anyone who cared to learn. It was hard for him to find a porter and explain who he was. "I must speak with Jon Snow. I am Davos Seaworth, the Onion Knight; here on behalf of Stannis Baratheon."

The porter looked at him as though he'd gone mad. "Are you daft? Stannis Baratheon died weeks ago."

"The matters I have to discuss are still quite relevant, no matter whom our ruler is."

The man grimaced; every part of him seemed to droop in some fashion, from his lank black hair to his hooked nose dotted with grease stains. "I will tell him you are here, although I cannot promise a quick reception. My lord is busy treating with his sister and the Dragon Queen."

"I am in no hurry. I can wait." While the man slipped away among the crowd, Davos took the opportunity to take a glass of milky tea and a couple pieces of dried bread from one of the long platters lining the tables in the center of the room. They were mostly empty; obviously, he was late for the meal-but he didn't mind. They'd been walking since dawn, determined to reach Winterfell before midday. Eventually they had joined a crowd all heading towards the castle, wishing to pay their respects to their new ruler and partake of the free food and shelter available inside. Melisandre had soon found a group of men she could convert to the Lord of the Light and spent nearly their entire walk in the cold explaining how the Lord of Light was the one true god-He had been created before the Seven even came into being, and anyone who thought otherwise was a blasphemer and eternally damned. She had attracted quite a few stares-not all of them welcoming.

For nearly an hour and a half he roamed Winterfell's dusty corridors or waited in the courtyard outside. Builders were hard at work, carrying pieces of lumber and buckets of water back and forth to repair the damage the castle had sustained during the battle. Although much of the inner keep had been spared the worst of the dragonfire, the damage was still considerable and the walls were lined with streaks of ash. He wished Shireen were here with him; she would be able to tell him about all the details of the castle and who each house sigil stood for. However, he'd been informed that Stannis had taken his family down to the battlefront with him and Queen Selyse and Princess Shireen had not been seen again-rumors said that they had been killed by the Bolton forces that had descended upon the already broken army so quickly and suddenly. He hoped her death had been quick and painless. He missed her terribly; in the absence of his own son, he had grown to love her as much as he had loved his own.

Finally, the porter found him again to say "Jon Snow will see you now, Ser Davos." Together they walked up two narrow flights of stairs to what had once been Ned Stark's solar. Of course, Ned Stark was no longer there-but Jon was, sitting in a chair by the fire with his curly black hair just brushing his shoulders and his hands folded neatly in his lap. He inclined his head in a nod of acknowledgment as Davos took the seat across from him. "Ser Davos. A pleasure to see you again. How may I assist you?"

"I've been wondering if you are in need of another head in these troubled times. I was Hand of the King for King Stannis for four years and, although I cannot say that I am quite skilled at diplomacy and debate, I will do what I can to aid you and your sister." He hadn't known the former Lord Commander of the Night's Watch for very long, but he found Jon to be a good man with a noble heart-and there were far too few of them left in the world as it was.

Jon thought about it for a second and then nodded. "You have given me no reason to doubt your loyalty and you served Stannis faithfully until his death. We would be happy to have you-although you would primarily be assisting my sister. I don't believe I will be staying here for very long-Daenerys Targaryen is eager to march south as soon as the rest of our bannermen have sworn allegiance."

"I will help Lady Sansa as well as I can, my lord."

He nodded, seemingly in satisfaction. "Very well then. I will have you meet her-I believe her small council has just called a recess." He turned to leave but Davos cleared his throat, making sure he had his attention.

"The red priestess came here also." Davos added. "I lost track of her in the crowd, but she was on her way."

"I'll talk to her." Jon said, seeming to file the task away in his head. The Northern people kept a strict adherence to the old gods; Melisandre's nightfires and inherent zealotry would not be welcomed by the majority of the populace.

With that they left the room and crossed the hallway, to another room dominated by a large wooden table and several chairs. A tall young woman with long auburn hair wearing a fur lined cloak and a grey dress embroidered with the sigil of her house sat at the head of the table, looking diligently through a pile of papers. She looked up when Jon opened the door and a smile spread across her face-a smile that dimmed slightly as she took in Davos and his lacklustre appearance from days spent traveling and nights spent in very shady inns and taverns. "Hello, Jon. Who's this?"

"Sansa, this is Ser Davos of House Seaworth. He was formerly Hand of the King to Stannis Baratheon and I met him when Stannis came to Castle Black to plan his first attack on Winterfell. He's intelligent and loyal, now finding himself unemployed. I offered him a spot on your small council-that is, if you will have him. He's good at talking to people, though he hasn't been in the North very long. Davos, this is my half sister Sansa Stark."

Sansa gave him a small nod as he bowed (just as Shireen had taught him he should when he was in the presence of a noble's company) and said "A pleasure to meet you, my lady."

"And you as well, Ser Davos." She carried herself with the bearing of the nobility; truly, she was meant to be a ruler. "Jon, have ravens arrived from any of the other houses?" They'd been sent out the day before and the responses were beginning to come back.

"Yes-Ser Marlon Manderly, Galbart and Robett Glover, and a handful of Liddles, Flints, and Norreys from the mountain tribes. The Karstarks have not replied yet, but as they sided with the Boltons to orchestrate the Red Wedding I believe we can expect no help from them."

"Good. I wouldn't want them here anyway. And Lyanna Mormont has already arrived."

"Yes. She has already sworn her allegiance to you as Lady of Winterfell. As to swearing her allegiance to Queen Daenerys, she is still uncertain." Davos caught the look of worry in the young man's grey eyes; obviously he expected Lyanna wouldn't be the only one who was uncertain about fighting yet another war in the name of a southron queen they barely knew.

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it." Sansa replied. "I don't know how the Lannisters and Tyrells hope to counter dragon fire. There's that at least. But so few bannermen…"

"The Red Wedding killed nearly everyone-and those who weren't are prisoners at the Twins. The families are doing the best they can, Sansa. We'll find a way to muster an army for the Queen."

She sighed. "I hope so. I wouldn't exactly want to be on the wrong side of her dragons."

"Where is the Queen?" Davos spoke up curiously. He'd heard the stories about the woman across the Narrow Sea who had hatched dragons and was slowly making her way across the continent to reclaim her birthright-but he hadn't really believed them.

"I don't know." Jon replied. "Pyp, Grenn, Martyn, Bernarr, Tim, and Rory are her honor guard. They'll see that nothing goes wrong."

Almost as if in answer to his words, a man dressed in the black of the Night's Watch rushed into the room. The door banged against the wall but he didn't even seem to notice. "Lord Snow, you might want to come and see this."

Jon turned towards him abruptly. "What is it, Grenn? Shouldn't you be with the Queen?"

"That's what I'm trying to tell you-she's in the Great Hall."

"The Great Hall?" It was probably still filled with people. "What's she doing there?"

"I have no idea, but she said she wanted to go there and we really didn't see what was wrong with it but now-just come and see."

Jon glanced at Sansa as if to say _Will you be all right?_ and she quickly replied with "Go see what's happening, Jon. I'll stay with Davos and we'll make sure we have enough silverware for the feast tomorrow night." He nodded and followed Grenn out of the room, banging the door shut behind them.

Davos watched her stand there for a minute, watching the place where her brother had disappeared just moments before. He could only see her profile, but he could plainly see the worry in her eyes. "My lady? Are you well?"

She looked back at him as though surprised to see he was still in the room, sweeping an errant strand of hair behind her ear as she picked up the next sheet of paper. "Yes, I'm fine. I just need to write a quick letter and then we can return to the matter of the silverware."

~FAS~

"Please tell me she's not hurt." Taking the servants' stairs behind the kitchen at a nearly breakneck pace, Jon still had no idea what was happening. Scenario after scenario went through his head-a riot, poison, a loose dragon...they got worse and worse the closer they got to the Great Hall.

"No, it's nothing like that." Grenn replied as they rounded the first floor landing and practically burst through the kitchen doors, causing a young serving girl to scream and nearly drop the tureen of vegetable soup she was carrying. Jon didn't stop to apologize; he just kept running, feeling like his feet were flying as they pounded towards the Great Hall and flung open the doors.

They entered the room from a side door and so they had a minute to take in the scene before anyone else noticed them. Daenerys was sitting on the floor with a large group of other Northerners- mostly women and children, but a few men sat among them as well. A couple of little girls were trying to play with her hair, which she'd taken out of its usual imposing blonde braid so it flowed loose and free around her shoulders, and she wasn't telling them to stop. Rather, she was talking to the crowd-as they drew closer, Jon realized that she was talking about the Free Cities. He was willing to bet that no one in the Great Hall had ever been out of the North in their entire lives-much less gone all the way to Essos-and they hung on her every word. The rest of her honor guard stood at the back, looking confused and uncertain about how to proceed.

The crowd actually seemed to...like her. No one was pulling out a hidden dagger or a bow and arrow or any of the other five thousand horrible things he'd imagined during his frantic flight down the stairs-in fact, there were no dissenters at all, as far as he could see. A small knot of people had formed in the doorway; Dany's group of listeners had begun to take up the majority of the room. He could see soup and bread abandoned and cyvasse boards pushed back; a strange and expectant hush hung in the air, every eye fixed on the girl with the white blonde hair.

"What do we do?" Grenn asked. His eyes were wide and almost frightened; they'd been specifically told not to let anyone get too close to the Queen and were obviously unsure how to handle the situation. Really, so was Jon.

"Do we really need to _do_ anything?" Jon replied quietly, imagining what it would be like if they tried to send everyone out and caused a scene-and how upset Daenerys would be. Although he'd only known her for a handful of days, she struck him as the kind of woman who resented being told what to do. "If we just stay here and watch the crowd...make sure no one gets rowdy or violent...no one looks upset right now, Grenn."

So they did. They established a perimeter and stayed there, watching silently, while Daenerys talked for at least the next hour and a half. In spite of the fact that Jon was meant to stay on task, scanning the crowd for potential threats, he couldn't help but be carried away by her voice-telling the people story after story about the free cities: watching the water dancers in Braavos, seeing the famed mazes of Lorath, and even waiting outside the pleasure houses in Lys for her brother to spend his coin. They were places that seemed half a world away-but even so, Jon could imagine they were just outside the door by the way her voice transformed into a living thing: a snake, twisting simple words into something far greater than that. The crowd was transfixed-in fact, Jon almost felt bad when he realized how late it had grown. Sansa would be expecting them for the evening meal with the rest of her closest advisors.

The people muttered in dissent when she had to leave; the children who had been so intent on braiding her hair earlier now cried bitterly as their mothers pulled them back behind their skirts. As the dragon queen rose to follow him upstairs, she stopped here and there to talk to people and accept their praises and blessings. And it wasn't just that; something in Dany's eyes had softened in a way he'd never seen them soften before. No longer did she look like the cold as ice dragon queen personage she always used to present herself; she looked happy, eyes sparkling with genuine interest as she thanked them all. By the time Jon finally managed to grab her wrist and lead her into the nearest hallway and up a small spiral staircase, he was sure she'd managed to win over most of the room.

He pulled her into the first empty room they came across-some kind of bedroom for visiting noblemen, decked in heavy animal furs with carved wooden wolf statues keeping watch from atop the vanity. "What was that about?" he asked, trying to keep his voice calm and not betray any of the fear he'd felt, just for those few moments on the stairwell.

Her eyes, when she looked up at him, seemed almost confused. "What are you talking about? I wanted to talk to the people. If the North is going to be my ally I think it would be best if we could find some common ground-"

"Why wouldn't you allow your Guard to check them first? Someone could have been armed!"

"But no one was-"

"That isn't the point. Something could have happened to you. What was I supposed to think when Grenn came bursting into Sansa's solar completely out of breath and babbling about how I had to come with him right away because something had happened and you were involved? I thought you'd gotten stabbed." He willed himself to stop talking, but his brain had other ideas. "Do you have any idea of what could happen to us-to our kingdom-if you wound up dead? We would have thousands of Dothraki, Unsullied, and sellswords on our doorstep facing a fight that we could never hope to win. It would end us."

He knew immediately this had been the wrong thing to say. Whatever warmth had once been in her eyes was gone now; the tough mask had come down again. "Would it help if I wrote a letter telling them neither you nor your sister violated the guest right? I suppose that would make things easier-they wouldn't have a reason to attack you and you could stay here in your little castle, alone and at the top of the world while the rest of your world crumbles around you."

She turned to leave and, out of instinct, he took her wrist and gently turned her back around. He'd only meant to reprimand her, not to make her angry. He didn't know exactly what had gone wrong, but he preferred to figure it out now before it was too late.

She was shaking with rage; he could feel her pulse throbbing under his thumb. "What's wrong?" he asked dumbly, feeling there was something he wasn't understanding and hating that he couldn't put his finger on it.

"Nothing." she replied coldly. "Nothing is wrong. Now, if you'll excuse me I have a meeting to attend to." She tried to pull away but he still had her wrist, gripping it tightly without even realizing he was still doing so. His mind was miles away, trying to decide whether he was angry with her for immediately shutting him out again or angry with himself for making her do so. "Jon, let go." He let go of her wrist as though he'd been burnt and she strode off down the hallway, comfortable enough with the layout of the palace enough by now to find her way back to Sansa's solar.

"Wait!" he said before he could stop himself. She stopped at the foot of the next staircase, turning to look at him with that impassive look still on her face. "Yes, if something happened to you it would be devastating for my kingdom...but I wouldn't enjoy it either. When you came to Castle Black...I felt it was my job to help you settle in and ensure your safety-and I suppose I still feel that same way, for as long as you remain in the North. If you got hurt, I would feel as though I had personally failed both you and myself-and you deserve better than that. I'm sorry."

She didn't move for a few long seconds; just stared at the cracked wood between her feet as though it was the most interesting piece of ornamentation in the world. Finally she glanced up at him again and said "I appreciate the thoughtfulness, but I can take care of myself. Jon." she added almost as an afterthought. "And...I apologize for making you worry. I didn't think about it really...I suppose I'm just so used to going out among my subjects back in Slaver's Bay. But the North is not Slaver's Bay-and I really do appreciate everything you have done to make me feel welcome here." She nodded once and headed upstairs; this time he didn't call her back.

Jon sank onto the quilt, carefully embroidered with pale green leaves, that covered the vacant bed. He could already feel a headache coming on-and it worsened whenever he thought of the Targaryen queen. Every time he thought she was just like one of the other claimants for the Iron Throne with no further ambitions beside cementing her right to rule and her family name, she always found a way to surprise him-whether it was standing with her on the Wall at night, watching wights move in the shadows of the Haunted Forest; or the way she had touched his hand last night in the crypts as though they were no longer Starks or Targaryens but simply two people mourning the losses of their families in ways neither one truly understood. Or today in the Great Hall, how her eyes had taken on that gentle hue when she made her way among the Northerners. And all it took was a step wrong-a misspoken comment here, a dropped glance there, and suddenly she was back to being a queen. It was exhausting. _She_ was exhausting. But somehow, he couldn't force himself to give up-not when he'd seen the girl beneath the queen and the truth beneath the legend. True, he hadn't seen much; just a tiny bit here and there, in the in between moments when there was no one else around to judge him for it. But he'd seen enough to realize that she didn't allow her facade to slip around just anyone-and that thought made the blood in his veins run a little hotter.

 _Gods._ He had to stop thinking about her; Sansa wasn't going to start the meeting without him and she would be very upset if he was late. He got to his feet and ran a hand through his hair, trying to think about the million other things in his head he should be thinking about instead: primarily the White Walkers, Sansa, and how he would be able to convince the Northern lords to support Daenerys's claim for the Iron Throne and build her another army. Emotions weren't part of the equation and therefore they could wait-especially when even he wasn't exactly sure what they meant.

All he knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, was that they were dangerous and he should abandon them entirely. Unfortunately, he also knew that was the one thing he couldn't seem to do.

~FAS~

The Northern lords began arriving the next day in a flurry of coaches and banners. Daenerys surveyed them carefully from her bedroom window, watching each delegation walk through Winterfell's main gates. The palace had been closed to the populace; they would need plenty of space in the Great Hall for the Stark bannermen alone-but a few people still hovered around the edges of the palace courtyard, perhaps hoping for more handouts. She just hoped the proceedings wouldn't take _too_ long; she didn't want her forces camped on Dragonstone for too long, until they lost the element of surprise.

She felt a little shiver run down her back at the thought. Dragonstone, the fortress where she had been born all those years ago. The first real home she ever had. If she closed her eyes she thought she could remember it-black stone walls carved into dragons that leered down at her, a deep craggy mountain that dropped off into a roiling sea. Though she knew that was ridiculous; she would have been too young to remember anything that soon after birth. Most likely her young mind had drawn from all the stories Viserys told her and mixed them all together to create her own fantasy.

The Mormonts arrived first-the only house that had been willing to fight alongside the Starks to reclaim Winterfell before she'd lent them her dragons. Sansa had told her last night, when she had been briefed about the Northern lords and their houses, that were currently run by a ten year old girl-Lyanna. It seemed to be a common name in this part of Westeros. She was related to Jorah-the same Jorah whom she had pushed away time and time again, yet kept coming back to her as often as he left. Until he'd contracted greyscale, that is. She glanced at them out the window; a little girl with dark hair and a solemn face, with eyes that seemed to be pulled perpetually downwards that spoke of years of sadness, and a small entourage of men on horses that surrounded her carefully. There was one woman also, whom she expected was a septa. The man at the head of the column carried a flag with the family's crest: a black bear on a green background.

She watched carefully as Lyanna was helped down off her horse and shared a few words with Jon and Sansa in low tones. She took a careful note of the way her dark eyes flitted across the courtyard as if looking for someone-probably the Dragon Queen herself. Dany had originally wanted to greet the lords and ladies as they arrived but Jon had insisted that she would meet them at the banquet the Starks were hosting later that night-she was to be the guest of honor, after all-and she hadn't argued. In fact, she hadn't spoken to Jon at all since the previous night and she'd been finding ways to avoid him wherever she could. That wasn't too hard; he was nearly always busy with something and if she kept herself on the move she found she almost never ran into him.

Behind them rode Galbart and Robett Glover, distinguishable by their house sigil of a grey fist on a background that was red as blood. Both men had dark coloring and almost sullen expressions as they came to a stop at Winterfell's front gates along with a host of flag carriers and advisors. They exchanged what looked like a few tense words with Jon before they were shown inside and their horses were led to the stables to be reshod. She didn't miss the way they looked around carefully, as if expecting a dragon to jump out at them from behind the castle battlements. With them they brought a large delegation of men, though they certainly didn't look happy about it.

The Manderlys arrived much later, probably because they had so much farther to go than the other bannermen. By the time they arrived, the sun was beginning to set and the wind was starting to pick up-sending snow and ice whirling around the castle courtyard. Daenerys just had time to catch a glimpse of them when they arrived bearing a merman on a background of turquoise and a force of nearly 1,500 men before she had to begin preparing for the welcome feast that would round out the night's festivities.

Sansa donated her own vanity for the queen's use and Daenerys spent the next couple of hours being fussed over by a team of servants-she was drawn a warm bath (which she stayed in until the water had long since grown cold), her hair was brushed until it shone and then pulled back into her usual braid down her back, and she even allowed them to rub sweet smelling oils into her skin before she wore the dress the palace seamstress had sewn for her the night before. It was unlike any other dress she had even worn before; while she was used to the light, airy clothing reminiscent of life in the heat of Slaver's Bay and Vaes Dothrak, the dress she wore now was made of a material that was thick but soft-probably designed to keep out the Northern winters. It ended just above her ankles, made of simple black material with red detailing that snaked from the hem to the bodice, making the dress give the illusion of shimmering whenever she moved. The red three headed dragon that adorned her own house sigil had been carefully embroidered on her chest. It didn't take her long to decide that she loved it.

"You look lovely, my Queen." one of the servants said appreciatively as they stepped back to admire their handiwork.

"Thank you." Daenerys replied simply, unable for a moment to tear her eyes away from her own reflection. She looked so different now; more Northern-though her Targaryen coloring still gave away her true identity. "You have all done a wonderful job." With that, she went to meet Sansa and Jon where they would make their entrance once the rest of their honored guests had been seated.

She felt entirely too pleased when Jon's jaw dropped as soon as he saw her. "Lady Stark, you will have to thank your seamstresses for me. They are extremely talented." she continued, relishing the fact that she wasn't cold for the first time in almost a week.

"It's my pleasure, your Highness." Sansa looked queenly as well, with her long auburn hair twisted into a braid down her shoulder and a direwolf pin attached to the front of her fur cape. "I am glad it was to your liking. Shall we begin? I believe everyone is hungry from their long trip and the kitchen staff has been hard at work all day."

Jon snuck another glance at her as he went to take his cousin's arm so he could lead her downstairs. "You look beautiful, your grace."

"You don't look that scruffy yourself, Lord Snow." she replied simply. He was wearing a new doublet, black as midnight with a silver direwolf emblazoned just below his hemline. The contrast was quite striking; it gave the embroidery the effect of snarling out at whomever happened to be closest. All in all it was simple attire but Jon wore it with an easy grace.

Just then the steward announced Lady Stark and Sansa set off with Jon by her side. Daenerys waited patiently for her turn through the door, while her security detail shifted restlessly. It was obvious they weren't used to large feasts and were no doubt unsure of what to expect. But when she was announced they performed beautifully under the pressure-two flanking her, two in the back, and two already waiting behind the dais for the high nobility as she walked through the wooden door and into the light of the Great Hall.

It had been completely transformed in just a few short hours: the long room was now filled with row upon row of wooden tables, each one filled with men dressed in the colors of their respective houses. The air hung low with candle smoke and a strong scent of wax permeated the festive atmosphere as she walked down the long aisle that led to the high dais, already crowded with the Starks and their bannermen. She took her place in the center of the table, between Jon and Sansa, taking careful note of how every pair of eyes in the room seemed to track her every movement.

As soon as she was seated servers seemed to flow out of the walls themselves, carrying cups of fine wines and bowls of a hearty bean soup. Dany hadn't been sure what to expect considering the past couple of days had to have depleted many of the castle's stores, but the soup was delicious-and much thicker than what had been served at the noonday meal. Apparently they had been storing up for just such an occasion. She drank as little wine as she could while still being polite; she wanted to keep a clear head for the proceedings.

Although the rest of the room was filled with excited chatter-she was willing to bet that none of the soldiers in the crowd had ever been to a royal banquet before-the high dais remained sullenly silent. The lords and ladies ate in silence, every so often glancing towards her as if expecting her to call her dragons down upon them. There was some polite conversation here and there as the meal wore on, mostly complaints about the inclement weather for traveling and the heavy snows that had buried much of the Northern roads but no one talked to her. She'd seen it before; they were still unsure about her and were regarding her from a distance until they'd formed a first impression. The courses flowed back and forth-roast duck covered in lemon sauce, chicken fresh off the bone, mashed potatoes saturated with garlic butter, and chocolate pudding covered in berries. It was a light feast by most standards but nothing felt opulent-like the feast she heard they had thrown in King's Landing for Joffrey's wedding day that had over one hundred courses.

"The chicken is my favorite." Jon muttered, cutting another bit of meat off the bone in front of him.

"It's very good." she replied. "Though it's not what I expected."

"Haven't you ever had chicken before?"

"Yes, but never prepared this way. It's not exactly the most common food source in Essos." She'd tried duck a few times, but the chicken was entirely new.

"I don't think I really want to live in Essos then." he said with a grin, while she kept her eyes trained on her plate and tried to suppress a smile.

"It's not all bad. Their lamb is delectable." She looked out at the crowd, filling the hall with their excited voices, and wondered briefly just how many of them were actually excited to fight in another conqueror's war. "You must be used to sitting here then."

"Not really. Whenever Father hosted dinners of state, I always sat somewhere out there." He gestured to the crowded wooden tables. "Bastards weren't exactly allowed to mix with the royalty. I think they believe our blood is tainted."

"That's awful." She couldn't imagine parentage determining a child's place at table-though that was perhaps because bastards didn't matter nearly as much in Meereen as they seemed to in Westeros.

"It's politics, my lady. That's the way things have worked in Westeros ever since the conquest-and probably even before that. You get used to it after a while."

She picked at a bit of duck, coaxing it onto the edge of her fork. "Is that why you joined the Night's Watch?"

"Yes-there aren't many ways for bastards to advance without it." His tone was light and friendly, but she could sense something else in his voice-something that made her sense he hadn't quite made peace with the hand life had dealt him. "Though now I suppose I have been released from my vows. I have a feeling Ser Alliser wouldn't mind if I never came back."

Just then Sansa stood and pushed back her chair, heading upstairs to the meeting room-where they would actually begin to discuss alliances. Daenerys followed after her, with the rest of the heads of houses following in no particular order. It took a while to get everyone settled and wine glasses refilled; by the time the meeting finally commenced it had grown quite late.

"Lords and ladies," Sansa began, "I appreciate the time it has taken you to get here-especially on such short notice-to swear your fealty and allegiance once again to House Stark of Winterfell. But as you all know, our meeting today has a double meaning. Queen Daenerys Targaryen, claimant of the Iron Throne, volunteered her time and her dragons to help us reclaim our castle-and now, in accordance with our agreement, when she returns to Dragonstone she will do so with an army of Northerners to help her reclaim the throne that is rightfully hers. How many soldiers can you each promise?"

"My men are tired from fighting two wars nearly back to back." Lyanna Mormont cut in. "They need a respite to heal-and I will not waste my men's lives needlessly."

"My men are also exhausted." Galbart Glover added. "We are few enough as it is after what happened at the Red Wedding and though House Glover will always be willing to back House Stark," Here he inclined his head to Sansa. "I believe our forces would suffer greatly if a sack of King's Landing was to occur." He glanced at Daenerys distrustfully as if to say _And I certainly wouldn't let them die for_ her.

Next was Ser Marlon Manderly, speaking on behalf of his brother Wyman who couldn't make the journey from White Harbor. "When House Stark raised their banners, House Manderly did not the call, though we have been allies in wartime and in peace for a thousand years." He glanced at Daenerys for a second, once again placed at the table's center. "I ask your forgiveness and I pledge our services to you, Lady Sansa, and as many able bodied men as I can spare to Queen Daenerys."

The Norreys, Flints, and Liddels muttered among themselves quietly for a few moments before a Flint spoke up and said "We declare for the Starks and will send as many men as we can scrounge up to fight in King's Landing." This at least had been expected; apparently the mountain tribes would pledge themselves to almost anyone as long as it meant they could fight on a battlefield and bestow brutal deaths upon their adversaries.

"The Starks will of course give you all the fighting men we can find from Torrhen's Square and the surrounding smaller houses, your Highness." Jon replied. "We look forward to restoring you to your throne."

"Wait." Lyanna Mormont said, drawing every eye in the room back to her. "Why are we declaring for someone we barely know? Robb Stark shared Northern blood-but there hasn't been a Northman on the Targaryen family tree in generations, perhaps even since its inception. She has no ties to us, blood or otherwise-and I will not sacrifice my men's lives to fight in another lord's game, even if that means House Mormont breaks faith with House Stark." The temperature in the room seemed to drop of its own accord; the air felt rife with tension.

Sansa looked like she was about to add something, but Daenerys spoke first. If Lyanna Mormont didn't trust her, keeping silent now would not help her initial misgivings. "Speak truly, Lady Mormont: do you harbor any love for the Lannisters or Boltons?"

"No." she replied promptly. "But I will not fight to replace one tyrant with another."

"You lost someone at the Red Wedding, didn't you? Dacey Mormont...was she kin of yours?"

"Yes. My elder sister."

"Were the two of you close?"

The little girl shrugged; despite her young age, she handled politics more easily than nearly anyone Dany had ever met. "We would play games together in the evenings. She taught me about the Dance of the Dragons-and all the other injuries done to the Seven Kingdoms by your ancestors."

"I am sorry that you lost her. The Lannisters killed my family too, though I was too small to remember them. And just like you allowed your troops to assist in the battle to exact vengeance for your sister against the Boltons, so I would go to King's Landing and do the same against the Lannisters. I cannot promise that your men will remain out of harm's way, but I swear to you I am not like the Baratheons. I have seen poverty-I have lived in it, for nearly all of my life. I was not born to gold and riches or raised inside a castle wall-perhaps I may have turned out very differently if I had been. I cannot say my blood doesn't run hot whenever I think about the Usurper, sitting on the throne that is rightfully meant to be mine, but as your queen I would not forget where I came from-nor how many people still live that way now. That is the difference between me and the Lannisters or Boltons, Lady Mormont. They truly are playing intricate games; creating pawns out of kingdoms and manipulating the playing field to their advantage. But that is not my way-nor yours, I believe. When I take back the Seven Kingdoms, my rule will be different than theirs. This I swear. And, should you claim for me and then live to regret it, I will not hold it against you. Your house will not be punished and your lands will not be seized by the crown. I don't believe in games-only justice. This is all I can give you-the final choice is of course your own. But declaring for me, helping me to topple the Lannisters' throne, will give you the vengeance you crave-just as it will give me mine. I will make things right."

The room was dead silent, every pair of eyes looking from her to Lyanna and back again. Daenerys couldn't help the way her heart seemed to beat inside her throat, waiting for the girl's answer. Finally, Lyanna looked up at her again with an inscrutable expression. "I can promise you forty five men. We may be a small house, but we are proud. I can't tell if you are different than your relatives, if you truly are who you say you are-but you are right: if attacking King's Landing will preserve my sister's memory and exact vengeance on her killers, and the killing of Robb Stark and his other bannermen as well, I will do so. And when you are on the throne you covet so dearly, miles above the rest of us...then we will see what kind of a queen you really are." She didn't sound threatening, more as if she was just stating a fact: rulers lied and manipulated. Daenerys had realized that for herself, time and time again.

House Glover was the last house that had not declared-but he did so soon after, promising fighting men in memory of King Robb. The meeting disbanded soon after; the night was late, the wineskins were dry, and there would be plenty of preparations to make when morning came. The room emptied quickly but Dany, Davos, and the Starks stayed awake tabulating numbers and finalizing lists of food, bandages, and weapons. All in all, the Targaryen army had gained almost fifteen thousand troops-a small number compared to some of the greater houses to be sure, but big enough considering all that had happened in the North in recent days; Dany couldn't help smiling as she wondered what Tyrion would think about that. He would probably agree that the more men they had the better; that is, once he finished telling her how terrible it had been having to command the initial crossing all by himself.

"When would you like to leave, your Highness?" Sansa asked, looking up at her curiously from amid sheets and sheets of data. The tip of her braid passed over an inkwell in one corner of the table, staining it black.

"The day after tomorrow, if possible." she replied. By the time they marched to Dragonstone, Tyrion would no doubt have made the initial landing and-if all went well-taken over the castle. "Is that manageable?"

"Yes, of course. Ser Davos, if it's not too much trouble I'd like a word regarding the state of Castle Black…" They went outside; Dany could hear their voices until they disappeared around the next corner and Winterfell's heavy stone walls blocked them from earshot. Two days. She had less than two days left in Northern hospitality. Less than two days with Jon. She was surprised to realize she would miss him; him and Sansa both. Viserys had always told her that the Stark family was no better than the creature they wore on their capes-but the ones she'd met had been nothing but welcoming to her.

She examined the sheets of paper one last time before she cast them aside, stacking them neatly on the side of the table. "It's getting late, Lord Snow. Aren't you tired?"

He shrugged. "I'll manage a while longer. I suppose I'm still used to pulling night shifts at Castle Black."

Which reminded her: "I assume you'll be heading back as soon as your sister is secure in Winterfell? Even though you're not Lord Commander anymore, you still seem to be very influential."

He looked down, examining the map of the North under his hands with an unerringly determined look on his face. "I don't think so. I'm not welcome there; I'm not a brother of the Night's Watch anymore and I believe I've lost my place. Sansa has agreed to let me lead the Northern forces to Dragonstone-we both believe it will be the best way for me to spread the word about the White Walkers, even if most people won't believe me."

"Oh." That stopped her cold for a minute-so she wouldn't be saying goodbye to Jon after all.

"Is something wrong, your h-Daenerys?" He caught himself just in time.

"No, it's fine. It's just that apparently you'll be stuck with me for at least the next month or so."

He grinned. "I would hardly say that so negatively. Unless of course, you'd rather have someone else-"

"No, of course not. You've already proved your loyalty to my house; it would be a pleasure to have you as a commanding general." And she was glad she wouldn't have to say goodbye to him yet, for some reason she couldn't quite explain; she had to admit that it was rather nice to have him following her around like a shadow-except when it became obnoxious because she really could take care of herself. Even so...it wasn't just the protection aspect, not when she sometimes felt like he was the only person in the entire world she could possibly talk to as a person, not a subject, ruler, or advisor. Recently, she'd been finding herself letting her guard down around him more easily-sometimes without realizing she was doing it. But she realized that this was dangerous; how many people were out there waiting for her to let their guard down so they could simply betray her? At least half of the sellsword companies, she was certain. She wanted to think that Jon wasn't like them, but she could trust no one-and until she knew Lord Stark's bastard better, she couldn't allow herself to get too close. "It's only that you were just reunited with your sister-"

"Sansa will be fine. Ser Davos is certainly capable of helping her assume her new role. And besides, soon enough King's Landing will be yours and I can come back to her."

She nodded. Time and again, Jon Snow surprised her; time and again, he proved he was different than all the other men she knew. "I appreciate your loyalty." With that she turned to leave, afraid she would drag herself deeper down if she stayed any longer. They were playing a dangerous game; she suspected he knew it just as well as she did. She couldn't afford to let herself get distracted from the bigger picture. They were still tentative allies; one conversation in a crypt didn't change that.

She wasn't surprised to find she had a headache by the time she finally managed to fall asleep.

~FAS~

The next day seemed to fly by. Once the decision had been made, things seemed to move extremely fast: there were provisions to pack, tents to ready, horses to shoe, and goodbyes to be said. Jon, Sansa, and Daenerys were busy from sunup to sundown making sure the troops would be ready to march the next morning as soon as the sun came up; luckily, they didn't have much to do to convince the soldiers to march all the way to Dragonstone. Although many of them were certainly war weary, the castle was filled with an air of excitement at the thought of fighting under three dragons (Jon even heard a few men say that there was no way the Lannisters would be able to mount a suitable defense, which could very well have been true). He was wont to keep it that way, even as the last few preparations were made.

By the time night fell, the new army stretched out in front of the castle-a seething mass of grey and white tents and tiny fires scattered here and there, surrounded by men singing bawdy drinking songs or kissing their sweethearts. It was still bitterly cold; Jon wouldn't mind going south just to escape winter, if it came to that-though if what Melisandre said was true, soon even King's Landing wouldn't be safe from the White Walkers. It made his spine prickle unpleasantly as he remembered the creatures were still out there-and now he was taking a detour, leading a battle when he should have been collecting more dragonglass.

"What are you thinking about?" Sansa stood next to him, mirroring his posture: leaning against the castle ramparts and looking out at the sea of tents.

"Nothing." he replied; Sansa didn't know anything about the White Walkers and far as he could tell she didn't need to.

"You're always thinking about something, Jon. You've always been too serious-even when you were a boy." She looked down, scratching a line in the stone wall. "Are you thinking about the Queen?"

"No." he answered, too quickly. "Not...the way you probably think I am, at least."

"She does seem different than Queen Cersei. Maybe she is the right choice for the Iron Throne-or perhaps we should just destroy the Iron Throne altogether."

He looked at her curiously. "And not be a monarchy? Whatever would we do then?"

"We could have a government run by people. It's not such an impossible idea, you know."

"I don't think our world is ready for such a thing-not when there are still petty lords who want to be king and bannermen willing to fight for them."

They stood in silence for a moment, the songs the men were singing wafting up to them on a cold night breeze, until Sansa finally spoke again. "Jon...be careful in the South, all right? I want you back here alive." So many hadn't, after walking on the Kingsroad-though Ned and Arya were the first names that came to mind. He'd thought Sansa was dead for a long time as well.

"I promise. I'll be back as soon as I can."

"We're the only Starks left. We have to stay together."

"I agree-and don't worry. I won't leave you." He hugged her close and they stayed that way for a long time, watching the campfires burn into the night, melting away the darkness.

 **So I've been trying to find an accurate count of the Northern forces but everything I've found gives me different numbers. I ended up going with 15,000 since they just fought (two) battles and they probably don't have as many troops as some of the other houses like the Tyrells and Lannisters.**

 **Review, follow, and favorite! Thanks for reading!**

 **Review, follow, and favorite! Thanks for reading!**


	8. A Journey in the Dark

**Back with another chapter!**

 **Disclaimer: See Chapter 1**

 **Enjoy!**

The army began their march early the next morning, as promised; the sun had just risen when Daenerys and Jon led the way out of Winterfell's main gates to the cheers of everyone who had roused themselves at such an early hour to see them go. Sansa stood on the ramparts, resplendent in Stark glory, She had seen them out earlier, accepting Daenerys's grateful thanks for her hospitality and telling Jon once again to come back in one piece. She looked impossibly small now, Jon thought, amid the towers of their ancient family castle. And yet he knew-would be a fool not to, in fact-that she was a Stark in every sense of the word-and Starks could look after themselves. Yes; for the first time in about six years, Winterfell was in good hands.

He glanced at the straggly column behind him; at the men laughing and talking amongst themselves as they walked down the Kingsroad. Each house seemed to keep to itself, though he knew there would be more mingling the farther along they went and the more comfortable the soldiers found themselves in their new surroundings. This would be a learning experience for them all; most of the soldiers had probably never seen King's Landing-and he would be willing to bet a couple of them didn't even know what it was. It was simply another place; the place where royal houses laid intricate power plays to secure the downfall of others, without really caring about the people they were meant to be ruling. As the son of a ruling lord Maester Luwin had taught him about the Targaryen kings; it had been a long time, but he still thought he could name every Targaryen to sit the Iron Throne since Aegon's conquest. How many of the men riding behind him today could say the same?

Next to him rode Daenerys, atop the white horse the stablemen at Castle Black had managed to find her. Riding a dragon from place to place would be too conspicuous-not to mention that the dragons were off hunting for most of the day and usually didn't return to their mother until late at night. Jon couldn't say that he wasn't happy to see they were away; the last thing he needed was for the men to worry about being burnt alive despite the Queen's assurances that they only burned her enemies.

She looked the way he expected a queen to look: hair meticulously braided, eyes fixed straight ahead on the road before her, face expressionless. He got the sense she wasn't quite in the moment, as if she was miles away-or going over the rest of her plan. Either way, he didn't talk to her; in fact, he didn't talk to anyone as they continued down the road, to Dragonstone and whatever lay beyond it.

~FAS~

They made camp for the night in an area of undisturbed woodland. The men worked quickly; within two hours tents were raised and fire pits were burning merrily under the rapidly darkening sky. Almost as soon as the marching stopped the dragons flew away to hunt; Daenerys knew they'd be back by morning. The older they got, the more determined they became to find their own food-she knew soon they wouldn't even accept food she gave to them. They were definitely growing up; and yet, she still knew that they were hers. They would always be hers, no matter what. She was their mother and they were her children-powerful and terrible children to be sure, with the power to change worlds and crumble cities to dust, but her children nonetheless.

Within another hour rations had been distributed and the men fanned out throughout the camp, talking rowdily and boasting of the victories they would win once they were able to march on King's Landing and slaughter every Lannister and Tyrell in sight. As always she took her meal in her own tent, alone, glancing over her map of the Targaryen forces. The wooden lions and roses occupied King's Landing while the dragon had been set firmly upon Dragonstone; slowly, deliberately, she moved the wooden direwolf that represented House Stark down a couple of paces to indicate movement. They would march southeast until they reached Gulltown, at which point ships would meet them to escort them to Dragonstone (she would have to write to Tyrion to ensure they were welcomed thusly; perhaps she could send Viserion out again in the morning). Sansa had guaranteed they would be escorted through the Vale of Arryn by trained guides; apparently the regent of the Vale, Petyr Baelish, was allianced with the Starks. While he remained neutral in the clash of opposing forces, he would grant the Northerners passage-and by extension, her as well. Once on Dragonstone, they would consolidate their forces. She would spend no more than a week in Dorne gaining their alliance, and then they would march on King's Landing. She knew it was risky; an entire week at Sunspear would no doubt alert the Lannisters to their presence-but it was the best shot they had. It would give them time to shore up a defense, but the Targaryen forces would be as strong as ever when they marched through the city gates.

She set aside what remained of her food and pushed away the board; enough strategy for one day. Instead, she instructed one of the guards outside her tent to find Jon Snow and bring him to the tent; of course, the man instantly complied.

Jon arrived ten minutes later, an easy smile on his face. "Hello, Daenerys. How may I assist you?"

"Do you have your sword with you?"

It hung on his waist like it always did; he patted its hilt once, reassuringly. "Why do you ask?"

"Do you have time to give me a few more lessons?"

His eyes widened; he was terrible at hiding emotions, especially shock. "Right now?"

"Yes, if that's all right. I wouldn't want to interrupt you if you were doing something else." She would soon be his queen and she supposed she could demand it of him, but she didn't see the point in making him resent her.

"No, it's quite all right." he replied quickly. "The company out there isn't much good anyway. Do you have a certain place you'd like to practice?"

She would have suggested they just stay in the tent but she was sure the guards on duty would grow suspicious if they heard the sound of metal on metal and the last thing she wanted was to make awkward explanations. "We could go deeper into the woods; not far, but enough to keep them off our backs."

Thankfully, he only nodded. "Of course. I'll find a weapon for you to use and meet you there. It will be dark, however; you won't be able to see individual attacks as well as you might in the light."

"I'll bring a torch-but the great majority of my enemies won't attack me in the daylight, Jon." He nodded in understanding and slipped out, a wisp of cold air creeping into the tent as it swung closed behind him. She groaned inwardly as she quickly pulled on another outfit she had borrowed from Sansa: a deep blue vest and matching pants, soft to the touch and lined with fur. Even so, she was still cold as she told her guards she would be meeting with Lord Snow to discuss strategy; she hated this infernal winter and she wasn't quite sure how Northerners could stand it.

She slipped between knots of drunk men, torch clutched in one hand and hood drawn; Jon was waiting for her in a deserted clearing where she could still hear the shouts of some of the more drunken ones and the glows from their fires. As soon as she stuck the torch into the nearly frozen ground, shedding light on the thin layer of snow under their feet, Jon tossed her a small sword. It was bigger than the dagger and took a little more getting used to; to warm up, they again worked on the basics-this time adapting them for a larger weapon.

His eyes seemed to dance in the firelight as he said "Are you ready to spar, Daenerys?" Firelight glinted off Longclaw, which he held by his side in a neutral stance.

She took a moment to ready herself before she nodded. "Yes, I'm ready."

Jon's sword was a whirl of metal; it flashed in and out of the torchlight until she could barely see it. She tried to block, but she knew it was a lost cause even before the sword tip was at her throat. They tried it again-and again. No matter what she did, no matter how hard she tried to look in seven different directions at once, she could never quite catch his sword before he could sweep past her nearly nonexistent defenses.

Finally he stopped, as if he could sense that she was tired, frustrated, and very cold. "You're trying too hard. Don't try to anticipate where the sword will come next, especially in the dark. Just...clear your mind and try to listen. Let the sword do the work, not your head." He took a few steps back, rubbing his gloves together as though trying to rub feeling back into his hands. "It's getting cold out here. Would you like to go back inside?"

"No, that's all right." It wasn't like it was much warmer inside the fabric tents. "Let's give it one more go." She took her position and waited, concentrating on the night air around her: the drunken songs, the wind whistling through the tree branches high above them, the crackling of the torch nearby…

And then she heard it: the soft _shhk_ of metal slicing through thin air. Immediately she raised her blade, catching his sword in a clumsy but usable parry. Jon grinned as he pulled his sword back. "Excellent. You're making progress." In spite of herself she couldn't help smiling, feeling a sudden sharp spike of victory.

They sparred for at least another half an hour, sparring again and again with just a few simple steps. Jon still gained the upper hand quickly nearly every time, but Daenerys soon found she was able to block a few of his swings and even drag out the match for a minute or so. She didn't realize how long they'd been gone or how hard she was shivering until her hand started shaking so badly she nearly dropped the sword. "I suppose I should have worn gloves." she said almost as an afterthought, examining her fingertips that were beginning to turn blue. Strange; she'd been so busy practicing she hadn't even noticed.

Jon picked the sword up from the ground before she could with one hand and deftly undid the laces of his cape with the other. "I think that's enough practicing for tonight."

"You don't need to-" It was too late; he'd draped the cape loosely around her shoulders.

"Just until we get you back to your tent. It's hardly an insult, your Highness." His eyes were still dancing as they trudged back through the snow, Dany using the torch to warm her fingertips. He obviously lived for swordplay; she couldn't help wondering if she'd ever loved any activity that much. Maybe horseback riding; riding her silver for miles and miles upon the Dothraki Sea with nothing for miles in any direction but sun, sky, and sand. She could have done that for hours and hours, without ever growing weary.

"Thank you, Jon." she added, just before they reached the outskirts of the camp. "You're a very good teacher."

"And you're a very good student. We can practice again whenever you'd like." They wound their way through the last few knots of men stumbling around the fire pits-which were nearly burned to ashes by now-until they reached the royal tent, resplendent with a three headed dragon neatly appliqued onto its side. It shone through the cold night like a beacon of light-though its dark inside was nearly as cold as the night outside.

"Here you go." She took off the cape, half frozen fingers still stumbling as she put the torch back in its place-safely away from the tent walls. She tried to fold it and hand it to him, but he refused.

"You need it more than I do, until you finally learn to dress for the weather." he replied. "This isn't Meereen, Daenerys-although I can't say I would give anything to be someplace that isn't bloody cold all the time." His tone was light and happy as he gave the tent a quick last survey, as if making sure everything was in its place and she would be safe for the night-seeming to miss the four guards posted around the tent. "Anything else I can do for you?"

"I don't think so-the sooner we can get through the North, the happier I'll be." she replied. "Good night, Jon."

"Good night, Dany." He turned to leave and she watched him wend his way through the forest of tents and banners until he was little more than a black dot in the distance.

For once she fell asleep easily, thoroughly tired out from the cold and the exercise, wrapped in a cape that still smelled like Jon. The night air seemed to clear her senses; she didn't have to read long into the night to convince her brain to shut down enough to let her sleep and she didn't lay awake thinking about the trials ahead of her.

For once, the howls of the winter wind and the rustles of the dead walking didn't haunt her every dream.

~FAS~

The days began to slip by, one after another-one week to two weeks. The army settled into a bit of a routine; rise at sunup, march until sunset-with a stop around midday for the noonday meal. The dragons, true to the Queen's word, were barely ever seen; they left in the morning and came back long after the rest of the men had gone to sleep. Nearly every night Jon and Dany would spar-sometimes for ten minutes, sometimes for three hours depending on the weather and the time of night. Jon suspected it gave them both a chance to unwind after the strain of long days spent on the road walking in the steady cold. Although the air seemed to warm slightly the closer they got to the Vale of Arryn, it still wasn't enough for Jon to take off his heavy fur cloak carefully embroidered by Sansa with snarling direwolves. Everything seemed to be going according to plan; Jon expected they would reach the Eyrie before the week was out, where Lord Robin Arryn would be waiting to greet them and send men to escort them through the mountains to Gulltown.

It was a quiet night. Still full and a bit sleepy from the evening meal, the troops set up camp in a relative silence; as the journey wore on wineskins ran low and there were fewer and fewer bawdy drinking songs. Jon was eating with a group of Winterfell soldiers; Daenerys would usually summon him if she needed to talk to him, but it seemed like she was too busy planning strategy to spar tonight. He didn't mind-while the Queen was enigmatic and a pleasure to speak with, he felt as though he barely had time to spend with his childhood friends who were marching off to battle. Of course, everyone knew how much time he spent in her tent-and it seemed to be all anyone wanted to talk about.

"Some men get all the luck." Eddard, one of Jon's oldest friends and a resident of the nearby town of Torrhen's Square, said as he nursed a cup of purple wine. "Look at you, old chap-commander of an army, and you get to spend every night with the most beautiful woman alive."

"Does she ride as well as she looks?" someone else piped up, taking a slowly roasting sausage out of the fire pit and eating half of it with one bite.

Jon rolled his eyes. "We're discussing strategy-that's _all._ I've never seen her undressed, nor do I believe I ever will."

"Never say never, mate. Stranger things have happened-just look at Rufus over here! No one ever thought he would find himself a wife but here he is, a married man at last." The subject changed to Rufus's simple marriage and upcoming child, making Jon breathe a sigh of relief even as he took another bite of sausage. He didn't envy Rufus, whose face was steadily turning shades of pink as the conversation wore on-but he certainly didn't wish to retake his place either.

Just then, the screech of a dragon cut through the night air. This wasn't unusual in and of itself, as the dragons came back at any hour of the day or night-however, the panicked male scream that came after it certainly was. Just like everyone else he got to his feet and ran towards the back of the caravan, already praying that he wouldn't be too late.

He only had a few seconds to take in the scene-the giant green dragon towering into the night sky, snarling down at a soldier wearing the merman of House Manderly who was cowering on the ground in pure terror. "Don't let it hurt me!" he screamed. "Please! I didn't harm it, I swear on my life!" Jon swore under his breath, watching as the rest of the men came to a sudden halt and formed a loose semicircle around the soldier in question-making sure to give the dragon (Rhaegal, wasn't it?) a large berth. _Dany, where are you?_

It was obvious that whatever had befallen the dragon, intentional or otherwise, Rhaegal wasn't pleased. Jon watched, sickeningly, as it (he?) roared loud and long, rearing its head backwards as if preparing to sink its teeth into the man's jerkin like knives through butter.

Jon was moving before he realized what he was doing-certainly before his brain could remind him about what a stupid risk he was taking. He leapt in front of the soldier, hand instinctively going to his sword but slipping away uselessly as he realized it would be of no use against Rhaegal's hard green scales, other hand raised instinctively in a gesture he'd often used to break apart fights involving Ghost and another direwolf. "That's enough!" he said, holding his ground-despite how much he felt he wanted to run away and never look back. "Stand down, both of you!"

The dragon cocked his head, as though contemplating the new arrival-or, Jon supposed, marveling at his stupidity. The creature towered into the night sky, moonlight shining off the scales on its flank, the spines on its back, and the horns on its head. Rhaegal looked like something out of a dream; something not of this world, certainly. He was a creature of myth and legend, filled with a sort of dangerous grace-and at that moment, Jon was certain he was going to die. He waited for the breath of fire and the rush of flame that would finish him off...but they never came. Instead he remained where he was, spellbound and transfixed while his body hummed with nerves.

Ever so slowly, the dragon lowered his head. His deep yellow eyes still regarded him curiously-but he didn't so much as bat an eyelash when two of the man's compatriots rushed out of the crowd and pulled him to safety. And just like that, Jon realized the creature wouldn't hurt him. At least, not tonight.

"Rhaegal!" The crowd parted soundlessly as Daenerys broke through the last few rows of men and raced to the dragon's side. Finally those eyes, glittering with wisdom, no longer faced Jon-instead swivelling to his mother. He let out a small chirp, almost like one of the barks of endearment the other direwolves had given their owners, so long ago. The queen rested a hand on the side of his face, stroking his smooth green scales, and then whispered something in his ear Jon couldn't quite catch. With that the dragon flew off, spiraling higher and higher into the night sky so it could join its brethren on the nightly hunt. Jon collapsed to his knees, ignoring the cold mud and the frozen dirt. His body still hummed with fear-and something that was not fear at all, but a deep inner peace. He had faced the dragon and had lived to tell about it. He had looked into those eyes, the eyes that seemed to know all of time and everything about him, and he had not looked away. He felt, inexplicably, that he had passed some sort of test-a test he hadn't realized he was taking.

His thoughts were torn away from his own miraculous survival as Daenerys turned on her heel and walked directly to the Manderly, who was still cowering on the ground looking like he was going to be violently ill. "Did you provoke him?" Her voice was deathly cold; obviously Rhaegal had not attacked without a reason. For the man's sake Jon hoped he answered well; if she found that he had hurt her child in any way, there was no telling what the Dragon Queen would do.

The man shook his head, tears streaming down his face and freezing as soon as they touched his armor. "No your Grace, I swear it. We...we'd finished our rations and thought we'd hunt around a little bit. I managed to shoot down a falcon but he...he took it from me before I could cook it."

"You're eating his prey. You must never, ever shoot down anything larger than a dove or a squirrel." She looked at him for another long moment. "What is your name?" He was a scrawny thing; he'd barely reached manhood, much less knighthood. He'd probably just decided to come along for the glory of it-not because he particularly cared about fighting in a battle at all.

"Matthew, your Grace." he replied, wiping a hand across his teary eyes. "I'm sorry, your Grace."

Reaching into the folds of her cape, she pulled out a small white handkerchief embroidered with the three headed dragon and placed it in his hand. "See to it that this does not happen again, Matthew." She turned away from him and walked towards Jon instead, who had finally managed to push himself to his feet. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, your Grace." he replied, brushing a bit of dirt off his cloak.

"You saved that man's life."

He shrugged helplessly. "I did what I could. I'm simply grateful that he didn't kill me instead."

"Yes-it's quite lucky, isn't it?" She turned and walked back to her tent, the group of men surrounding them still dead silent. Jon went back to his tent wordlessly, falling onto the pile of blankets he used for a bed without another sound and trying not think about how close both of them had come to a fiery death.

He could still feel the dragon's eyes, seeming to burn into his very soul, for all of that night and into the next.

~FAS~

For the next couple of days, the principal topic of discussion was how Jon was still alive after nearly facing down a _dragon._ Everyone seemed to have their own theories and ideas; it was all Dany heard about whenever she happened to passing through a crowded area. Some maintained it was just luck, while a few muttered that Jon was secretly a Targaryen, which meant he was prone to dragon riding-and incest. She couldn't help laughing at that one; if Jon really was a Targaryen, there was an entire branch of the family she'd never heard about.

As they went farther and farther into the Vale and higher and higher into the mountains, the weather grew colder and colder again. All of the villages they happened to pass were barely shells of civilization, with doors and windows shut tight to keep out the cold. A few brave souls would stand in their front yards and watch the battalion pass, wrapped in blankets and wide eyed awe. She kept her head up, trying to look as regal as she possibly could; someday, when the Iron Throne was hers, these people would talk about how they had seen their new queen riding past on a white horse with four thousand troops at her back to conquer the world.

The mountains and roads grew steeper and steeper. They had to slow their pace considerably, for fear of horses slipping on the loose gravel and plummeting to their deaths into the valleys and ravines hundreds of feet below. Eventually, they moved two by two-and then single file. Each night they made camp as soon as it grew dark, seeking out whatever shelter they could find; it would be suicidal to continue when they had trouble seeing the ground two feet ahead of them. The air at such a high altitude was light and cold; no one slept easily, especially when the wind whistled around the mountain peaks above their heads like a living being. The dragons became scarcer and scarcer, seeming to prefer taking their rests elsewhere-perhaps where the ground was more stable.

"Father used to tell us tales of fierce tribes of mountain men who lived in the mountains above the Eyrie and murdered travelers." Jon said late one afternoon, scanning the craggy peaks above their heads with cold suspicion.

Daenerys followed his gaze, searching for a flash of fabric here or a bit of skin there, peeking out from behind a bush or inside a deep crevice-some of which looked big enough to swallow a man whole. "They wouldn't dare attack such a large party." At least, she hoped that was the truth. Even so, she doubled the perimeter guard and silently prayed they would reach the Eyrie before the tension drove them insane.

Finally, the next day they were greeted by a runner wearing the traditional white and blue garb of House Arryn. "Daenerys Targaryen. We have been expecting you." he said, sketching a small bow. He had the lean, strong body of a runner with deep brown hair and eyes to match. "Lord Robin bids you welcome and invites you to accompany me to the Eyrie proper. If it agrees with you, your Majesty, you can spend the night there."

"And where will my troops be stationed?" she replied calmly, trying to gauge whether she could trust this new arrival.

"They will be housed in the barracks of the Knights of the Vale, who have agreed to spend the night in the valley. There is plenty of food and plenty of tents; they will be well taken care of in your absence."

"And what of my dragons? They will need a suitable place to rest the night, if they so desire it."

"The mountains are filled with valleys. If it pleases your Grace, they may pick whichever one they like."

She nodded and fell in step beside him-followed instantly by Jon and her security detail. "I hope you will not mind a few of my guests? This is Jon Snow, half brother to Lady Sansa of Winterfell and commander of the Northern forces."

The two men exchanged quick nods. "It's no trouble at all, your Grace. Lord Arryn would be pleased to extend his hospitality. If your troops would wait here, a colleague of mine-Ser Symond Templeton-will show the Northerners to the barracks." Jon nodded to one of his friends-at least, Dany assumed they knew each other well because they spent nearly every meal together-as if to pass over his command temporarily and they set off, attempting to reach the castle by daybreak.

"There are three waycastles we must pass through to reach the Eyrie, your Grace." their guide continued as they walked along, winding ever upwards. "Stone is the first, Snow the second, and Sky the third. There are mules waiting for you at Stone; you'll have to switch once you reach Snow, but you'll be fine. I know my way around like the back of my own hand, your Grace; you won't be harmed. The countryside is beautiful at night; you'll never see anything like it."

Stone was indeed more of a castle than a gate, with two towers and heavy iron gates that opened before them as they passed through. There they were greeted by a small contingent of knights of the Vale, who distributed the mules to everyone in the small company. Dany's was a small thing; a pale grey with eyes that seemed curious and alert as she contemplated the path upwards. Before they could leave, their guide-who introduced himself as Ser Mychel Redfort, newly knighted-insisted they feast on the meat provided by the knights of Stone. They ate eagerly; she hadn't realized how long ago they'd eaten the noonday meal, but she was extremely hungry. Once they were satisfied and had drunk glasses of cool, clean water-Mychel said it was best to have one's wits about them when making the ascent to the Eyrie itself-they set off to Snow.

Dany immediately realized what he meant about the countryside; the moon had risen fully, turning the normally bleak landscape into a maze of sharp blacks and whites. Moonlight glistened off trees in the valley below and the crags of nearby cliffs, transforming ordinary rock into something entirely different. She soon found herself entranced-by not only the ground beneath her feet but the stars in the air as well. They seemed so close, even though they were so far away; she could see more than she'd ever seen before, scattered across the sky like daisies in a meadow. They were uncountable, unfathomable, and thoroughly untouchable.

Her mule was a good mount; she knew exactly where she was going and made her way up the increasingly rocky path with quick, sure steps. After a while she forgot to worry about the trek itself and instead revel in the beauty and profound silence around her; it felt like she, Mychel, Jon, and her guards were the only living things in the universe. There was something profoundly sad about that in a way, she thought; how the stillness settled around them like a blanket as the night grew darker and no one seemed wont to disturb it.

Jon rode by her side for as long as he could until it became too rocky and Mychel took the lead in order to clear their way of any fallen rocks or dead tree limbs. It was a strange journey; populated by strange starts and sudden stops, but never once did she feel in danger-not with Mychel and his mules, who had obviously made this journey a thousand times, leading her and Jon and her other guards at her back. It never once occurred to her to feel afraid that they might plummet over the side of the mountain at any given moment; all that was real was the rock beneath her mule's hooves, the company around her, and the stars overhead.

After a while they reached Snow; an outpost consisting of only one tower, a stable, and a small keep. Here also they were given food and drink-though Mychel insisted they could not stay long. The commander in charge of the gate seemed to be a very nervous fellow as they were outfitted with new mules; he flitted between them nervously for quite a while until he finally decided on a mule with light golden hair for Daenerys. "Try him, your Grace. He's quite young but he's very steady and quite precise when he cares to be. He hasn't lost anyone yet."

 _I could always be the first._ "I'm sure he will do wonderfully, Ser."

"Look out for the ice." another knight was telling Mychel as he fed Jon's grey mule another handful of oats. "Sky is nearly impassable; you'll have to be careful."

"We will-and we'd best get going. Lord Arryn will be anxious to know you arrived safely, your Highness." Mychel bowed to her again and led the way out, the commander falling back reverently as she passed. She glanced back once to see Jon looking around in what seemed like awe, eyes swiveling to take in every detail of their new surroundings. For once, this was just as new to him as it was to her; she enjoyed watching the expression on his face change from disbelief to amazement again and again with each new wonder they passed.

The wind picked up as soon as they left Snow, climbing ever higher and higher towards their destination. It growled, cried, and whined like a living being, tangling in her hair and hitting her face with flecks of cold ice. The valleys below seemed very, very far away; briefly, Dany allowed herself to consider what would happen if she were to fall-and fall endlessly until she hit the ground and her body would be ripped apart on the rocks below. She wondered how many people _had_ died making this ascent, or trying to conquer the Eyrie itself. Supposedly its walls had never been breached-until a dragon came down from above. Heights and gates mattered little to dragons.

A couple of times they had to lead their mounts across a particularly narrow piece of ice or ridge in the path. Those occasions were the most nerve wracking; pressing close to the wall, fingernails scratching the ice coating the rock by her side as she forced herself to keep moving without worrying about what lay beneath her. Whenever that happened Jon would snake his hand into hers, as much as for his benefit as for hers; they anchored each other on the icy stone, at least until they were able to remount and continue their journey.

Finally they reached an extremely narrow walkway, coated in ice so thick that Mychel said there was no feasible way they could go on without dismounting. "I'll lead the mules over first and then come back to help the rest of you." Lithely, he leapt down from his mount and led him across the walkway, returning for her mule, then Jon's, and then the four of her guards. It was then that Dany got her first good glimpse of exactly what he was leading them over: the path was no more than three feet wide, with sheer drops on either side she was sure she couldn't survive.

"Does he mean to kill us?" she whispered as Jon placed a hand on her shoulder automatically. She was glad he did; perhaps it was simply the stress of the journey and the extremely long day, but her head was beginning to spin terribly.

"I don't think so." Jon didn't look convinced in spite of his words, even as Mychel gently coaxed the last mule to safety on the other side. "You'll be fine; just one foot in front of the other, all the way there. If you'd like, I'll go across first-"

"No, that's fine." She was a queen; she would go first, without fear. What precedent would she be setting for her people if she did anything less? "Mychel will help me."

Indeed, just at that moment the knight in question arrived back on their side of the gap and motioned Dany forward. "Would you like my help, your Grace?"

She shook her head before she could think better of it. "Wait on the other side." He nodded and took his place; Jon squeezed her shoulder one last time before she stepped forward, feet moving of their own accord until she stood at the mouth of the walkway. Twenty feet separated her from Mychel-twenty feet with nothing but the cold air, wind, and the drop on both sides. Her heart pounded as the wind threatened to blow her over the side; her anxiety formed a hard knot in the pit of her stomach and made her feel nauseous-but she didn't look back. _If I look back, I am lost._ It applied to all things; little journeys and large ones.

The first step was the hardest; her foot landed on a particularly volatile piece of ice and there was a terrified moment when she thought she was going to slip. But she managed to get her footing and keep it, placing one foot in front of the other as she walked across the narrow bridge. Why should she be afraid now, when she had walked through the ashes of her husband's funeral pyre and come out alive, when she had survived numerous assassination attempts, when she had led her people out of the Red Wastes safely, when she had saved her slaves from the masters who attempted to enslave and murder them, when she protected her dragons from those who desired them harm? _If I look back, I am lost._

Westeros could be hers, _would_ be hers; she just had to cross this gap.

As soon as she was within reach, Mychel took her hand and pulled her to the other side in one smooth motion. Her feet left the ice for one terrifying moment but it was over soon and she was in his arms-so close she could hear his frantic heartbeat. Carefully, he moved her away from the edge to the place where the mules waited a bit further down the path and twined her fingers in her mule's brown bridle. "Wait here." She wouldn't have dreamed of disobeying him.

Jon was next; he hadn't taken two steps when the ice beneath his feet began to crack and he really did slip-but Mychel was there in an instant to help him up. Still, Dany's heart hammered somewhere in the hollow of her throat. If he'd fallen, if he'd slipped off the bridge...there would have been nothing anyone could do. They would have had to continue on and she would have to write Lady Sansa to explain her brother wasn't coming back...she was shivering in a way that had nothing to do with the cold when Jon finally reached her and Mychel went back for Grenn, Pyp, Bernarr, and Tim. "I'm all right." he whispered, almost as if he could hear how her heart was pitter pattering like a rabbit's. "We're both all right. The worst is over."

As it turned out, he was half right. The rest of the ride to Sky was relatively uneventful; they never had to dismount again and the wind seemed to decrease in ferocity the later the night grew.

Sky wasn't much of a castle or a gate; instead, it was a wall crammed with passageways for boulders and other flying projectiles in case of an attack. "This is where the mules stop." Mychel said, ushering them into a dimly lit passageway that led straight back to the mountain. "In here a ways is the ladder that leads up to the Eyrie proper; it's a bit of a climb, but the wind will be off your backs. It's really quite doable."

They rode in as far as they could before they reached the 'ladder'. Handholds carved into the stone led upwards-for six hundred feet, where Mychel insisted men would be waiting to welcome them inside. "It's easy." he said, climbing up the face of the wall like a spider as easily as if he was climbing stairs. "Nothing to it." Daenerys wasn't particularly excited about climbing in the near dark with nearly frozen hands but the only other alternative was being pulled up in a winch and she didn't see how that would be much better. So she took a small breath to resign herself and followed him, paying careful attention to where he put his hands and feet as he climbed. She, strategically, did not look down.

It seemed they climbed forever. Her head felt like it was filled with cotton from a lack of sleep and her hands and legs felt so numb she could barely feel them. She had to concentrate on simply putting one foot in front of the other-on climbing ever upwards towards her destination, no matter how much her muscles ached or her body shook from the cold.

Finally the rush of voices from inside the castle began sounding closer and closer, the lights growing brighter and bright to lend the weary travelers a last burst of energy. She climbed on and on, casting aside the cold, exhaustion, and pain in favor of reaching her destination. In fact, she nearly didn't realize when she ran out of wall.

Strong hands pulled her the rest of the way upward until she was standing on solid ground again, legs trembling so much she could barely keep herself upright. "We made it, your Highness!" Mychel said, grinning at her as the others reached the top as well. In the sudden light of the castle Jon looked groggy and disoriented, his dark hair sticking up at odd angles and that same look of childlike glee and curiosity in his eyes as he surveyed his surroundings. "Took us a while, but we made it-and before dawn, too!"

"Thank you for your help." she replied genuinely. "We couldn't have made it here without your help, Ser Mychel Redfort."

He laughed. "My pleasure, your Highness. I'll see about finding us an audience." He rushed off again and Dany was left alone to survey their receiving chamber. It was tall and white, carved of what seemed like white stone or marble and for the most part undecorated since it was still open to the elements. A few builders and servants rushed around despite the early hour-it had to be near dawn-whispering excitedly amongst themselves and glancing every so often at the new arrivals. She could only imagine what she must look like; probably an awful mess, from the wind whipping through her hair for hours on end. The first thing she would request was a warm bed; the second, a hot bath.

Jon smiled at her wearily as he stepped to her side once again. "We made it."

"There were a few times when I honestly thought we wouldn't. You didn't have to come, you know."

He raised an eyebrow. "And miss the chance to see the only castle in the Seven Kingdoms that is supposedly impregnable? You misjudge me, my lady."

Suddenly, a man clothed in a blue cape walked up to them and sketched a low bow. "Queen Daenerys Targaryen, Commander Jon Snow, my name is Lord Nestor Royce-High Steward of the Vale and Castellan of the Gates of the Moon. I'm here to escort you to his lordship, Robin Arryn: Lord of the Eyrie and Defender of the Vale, and his guardian Petyr Baelish-Lord of Harrenhal, Lord Paramount of the Trident, and Lord Protector of the Vale. They realize you must be exhausted after your long journey here but very much wish to speak to the famed Dragon Queen."

"Very well. Lead on, Lord Royce." Daenerys replied, falling in step behind him as he led them up a small marble staircase. Jon fell in step beside her, placing a hand lightly on her shoulder in a gesture both familiar and protective.

She didn't push him away.

~FAS~

The Arryn's main audience chamber was a rather small but high ceilinged room, covered in columns and elaborate scroll work, with a circle in the middle that Dany knew had to be the infamous moon door-given the command of Lord Arryn, that door would open to reveal an unforgiving plunge to the mountainside below. In the middle of the room was a large throne, decorated with the twisting statues of falcons and other birds of prey, ringed on all sides by benches for the assorted nobles to watch their king at work. However, there was no one else in the room at such an early hour-only the boy in the throne and the black haired man standing at his side.

The boy in the throne couldn't have been much older than two-and-ten or three-and-ten, with dark hair that tumbled around his shoulders and a slightly lopsided, boyish grin on his face. He wore the ceremonial robes of his house and grinned happily as Daenerys and Jon came to stand in front of him. Dany realized instantly that he was innocent; he had no idea how to play the game of thrones and so he would likely make an easy pawn-and when she looked to the man by his side, she had no trouble guessing who controlled him.

Lord Baelish looked...smarmy, as Viserys would have said. In fact, he almost reminded her of a weasel-he was handsome enough, in a quiet way, but the way he carried himself suggested this man was intelligent-perhaps even more intelligent than the Grand Maester himself and certainly smarter than you. He bowed respectfully as Lord Royce announced "May I present to you, Lord of the Vale, Daenerys of the House Targaryen, the First of Her Name, the Stormborn, the Unburnt, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Queen of Meereen, Princess of Dragonstone, Breaker of Chains, and Mother of Dragons and the head of her Northern forces, Jon Snow of House Stark."

"Your Grace, I hope your journey here was pleasant?" Lord Baelish asked with a smile that she didn't trust. "Ser Redfort is one of the best guides we have here in the Vale."

"He was wonderful." she replied truthfully. "Thank you for your hospitality in giving my forces a day of respite and a guide to lead us to Gulltown."

"It is my greatest pleasure. We at House Arryn are always willing to help our Northern allies-though I'm sure you, as the rightful queen of the Seven Kingdoms, can see why it would not be advantageous for us to raise our banners under your house's three headed dragon when so much is uncertain."

"I understand, Lord Baelish. And while I regret that the knights of the Vale cannot fight at the side of the Targaryens, I hope that you will be more ready to compromise when I come into my kingdom."

"Certainly." She could clearly hear what was left unsaid: _That is, assuming you win the throne._

The young Lord Arryn spoke up for the first time. "Is it true?" he asked, looking her over as though she might be hiding a dragon under her cape. "Do you really have three full grown dragons?"

"Yes, I do."

"I want to see them."

"I'm afraid they're out hunting at the moment; I may be their mother, but I cannot control when they choose to eat. Perhaps another time." Secretly she hoped they would not come back; the prince spoke with the air of someone who had been given everything in the world but was never quite satisfied.

"Oh." He looked to Baelish as if to say _I want one._

"You and your entourage will of course be welcome to stay the night here." Baelish continued as though there had been no interruption. "We would be more than pleased to show our future queen the delights the Vale has to offer. On the morrow, a team of our most experienced guides will lead you to Gulltown-where you can board your ships and complete your conquest."

"You're very kind. Thank you. Now, if you'll excuse us, my companions and I have been traveling all night and we would appreciate warm beds and hot baths."

"Of course. Mya would be happy to show you to your rooms." He gestured to a girl with long dark hair and dark eyes. "I will send word to Lady Stark that you arrived safely."

Mya chattered on and on about the Vale and its history as she led Dany to a room in the southernmost tower of the castle; sparsely furnished, it looked out on green valleys frosted with white snow and tiny frozen blue rivers interspersed here and there among the mountains. "Will you be requiring anything else, my queen?"

"Not at the moment-the journey here was exhausting and I'd like to rest. However, later I will require a hot bath." Mya nodded and curtseyed as she let herself out; as soon as she was gone, Dany kicked off her boots and practically leapt into the bed's warmth-resolving to check in with Jon as soon as she woke up.

She fell asleep moments later, imagining what it would feel like to skate down a frozen riverbank-and content with the knowledge that she was one step closer to home.

 **Next chapter will have more characters and POVs. Thanks for all the reviews, follows, and favorites! Keep them coming! I'm so glad you like the story :) Have a great day!**


	9. Return

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Jon slept for nearly half the day. When he next woke up, sunlight was streaming through his window and he was extremely disoriented. He sat up immediately, taking in his surroundings: a blue and white bed furnished with an almost ridiculously soft duvet, a large armoire in one corner, and large double windows that provided a sweeping view of the world outside. Standing, he crossed to look outside-and found himself looking down and down and down at the patchwork of meadows, rivers, and snowy mountaintops below him. He thought he could see his troops covering one meadow in a rush of grey and white banners; he marvelled at how far they'd traveled last night-and gave thanks silently to the gods for seeing them through alive.

His next order of business was to find Daenerys. It took all the willpower he had to swing himself out of bed and cross to the armoire, wincing as the cold soaked up through his bare feet. Inside the cabinet hung a simple jerkin, pants, and boots-probably left there by the servant who had shown him to his room the night before. He changed quickly, leaving his old clothes in a discarded heap on the floor with the intention of returning for them later, and left the room altogether.

The hallway was calm and quiet; his feet echoed on the bare marble as he walked along in the vague direction he'd seen Mya lead Daenerys in the night before. However, he hadn't gone far before Mya found him first. "Would you like something to eat, Lord Snow?"

"No thank you. I'm looking for her Majesty. Has she woken up yet?"

Mya nodded. "About an hour ago. She's still bathing. Shall I show you where to wait for her?"

"That sounds very nice. Thank you." As she led him to a small room strewn with small velvet settees and end tables (and of course, more windows) Jon couldn't help thinking the Queen had made a good call; the longer he thought about a hot bath, the better it sounded. Sometimes troops would bathe in the rivers they passed if it wasn't too cold, which it usually was, but the idea of bathing in warm water sounded absolutely heavenly. Later in the day, perhaps. "Please bring me paper and ink, Mya. I would like to send a letter to my sister." Even though she would no doubt hear of their safe arrival from Lord Baelish Jon preferred to write her himself as well; perhaps she would understand what had happened with Rhaegal more than he did.

He waited for almost an hour-glancing through books of genealogy when he finished his letter and Daenerys still wasn't finished yet-before the door to the room opened again and the dragon queen herself stepped into the room. She wore a simple white gown and a heavier blue robe, decorated with the Arryn's falcon and moon symbols. "These clothes were Sansa's when she last stayed here."

Jon felt a jolt of surprise; Sansa had never told him she'd been to the Eyrie. "Interesting. I didn't realize she had ever been here. Did you sleep well?"

She nodded and sat down on a chair across from him, sighing deeply as she sank into the soft velvet seat. "Better than I have in days. It's so quiet here; I keep thinking there's something wrong because I can't hear your men making japes and singing songs at all hours of the day." She looked out at the mountainside, still frosted white and freezing cold, as if she had a sudden urge to go outside. "Would you like to walk with me?"

"Of course." Reluctantly he stood up, making sure his sword was still sheathed at his side in case he needed it. He wasn't disillusioned enough to believe they would be attacked but he still harbored a deep distrust of Lord Baelish-and from the way Dany seemed determined to avoid him, she felt the same way.

Everything in the Eyrie was white marble or brightly colored tapestries; the castle seemed to be covered in a hushed kind of quiet that discouraged him from talking too loudly. Even though they walked down hallway after hallway until they reached a pair of large double doors that led out to a small balcony, they didn't meet a single person. It was enough to make Jon feel oddly uncomfortable, though he expected the Arryns didn't get many visitors that would brave such a perilous journey. He shivered just reliving the memories; there had been more than a couple occasions when he had been sure either he or Daenerys or both would plummet off the side of the mountain. It was enough to make him positive he wouldn't be making a return journey until summer came.

That is, if summer ever did come again.

The wind rushed over the balcony, whistling through the air and making him wish he'd thought to bring a heavier jacket. The view itself was spectacular; a sweeping vista of fields, mountains, and open sky. Everything else-Westeros, the White Walkers, the army waiting for them at Dragonstone-seemed far away and nonexistent. All that really mattered was the Eyrie itself-a tiny piece of marble in the middle of an endless sea of white. "It's beautiful, in a way. Frigid, but beautiful."

Daenerys nodded, resting her hand on the cold metal balcony and looking up towards the sky as if she expected to see the dragons flying above them. "Yes, it is. Until I flew north I had never seen snow before. I'd heard about it of course, but I never dreamed it actually existed. It was just something out of a story-like dragons, or white walkers. Though looking back on it, neither of them were really stories after all."

"And what do you think about snow, now that you've been given ample time to get to know it?"

She shivered. "It's cold and wet. I don't think I like it much."

He grinned. "Not many people do; especially if they aren't northerners by blood."

"I don't know how you could stay on the Wall for so long without going mad."

"You get used to it rather quickly when you know you have no better options. For a bastard, unable to hold a title or rank, it is-was-a symbol of honor; even though the rest of the world may not see you as you are, among the men who have pledged themselves to be your sworn brothers you are judged only by the content of your character. Where you may have lived and died a meaningless existence in the South, in the Night's Watch you can rise high."

She shifted from foot to foot; a stray gust of wind grabbed one of the light blonde strands of her hair and flicked it easily across her face. He almost reached out in order to brush it back, but something compelled him to keep still. "Jon, why did the Night's Watch betray you?" He stiffened; he wasn't aware she knew about his resurrection. "The Red Witch said you were reborn from among the ashes of your funeral pyre because your own men stabbed you."

"I only tried to do what I thought was right. I had just fought alongside the wildlings at Hardhome, far beyond the Wall...we were utterly crushed by the White Walkers. Many died and those of us who survived were lucky to make it out alive. The survivors-wildling men, women, and children alike, some barely tall enough to hold a weapon-had nowhere to go and no one to turn to. I couldn't just turn them away-they would have froze to death or been murdered by our enemies-so I allowed them safe passage to Castle Black. It was a gamble, but I felt it was a chance I was compelled to take. However, my brothers did not see the matter as I did. They thought that by letting in the wildlings I destroyed the very principles the Watch tries so hard to uphold-and they decided I deserved death."

Daenerys's eyes flashed with anger-although he didn't believe she was upset with him. At least, he hoped she wasn't. "They do not deserve their posts."

"Perhaps not. I hear the new Lord Commander is considering hanging the ringleaders. But in the end, it will not change much; whether they walk away or hang I will still not be welcomed back." That was the way of the world; good men made the right decisions and were faulted for it. He wasn't naive; children's stories never painted accurate pictures of the cruel world around them, Life rarely had happy endings. The hero didn't always come out ahead.

"Where will you go after the conquest, when a Targaryen again rules the Seven Kingdoms?" He could hear the words she left unsaid: _When I no longer need you?_

"I suppose I will lead the troops back to Winterfell and assist my sister however I can. Wait until the right moment to destroy the White Walkers." He hadn't given much thought to it; all that seemed to matter at the moment was the conquest itself. "Try to be a different kind of hero-the kind who doesn't hide behind mirrored shields or rely on godly intervention to fight his battles."

"I'd be surprised if heroes like that existed outside of children's stories. In the real world, everyone has demons."

At first he didn't realize she was talking to him. She stared straight ahead, out at the blinding white light reflecting off the snow hundreds of feet below them, hands clenching the railing so tightly her knuckles turned white. "That's true enough at least. Dany." He still felt odd calling her by her nickname, even though there was no one to hear them. It seemed oddly personal, like she was choosing to reveal a part of herself to him that she revealed to almost no one else. A particularly strong gust of wind ripped across the balcony, making them both grip the railing a little bit tighter. "Come on," he said as soon as the roar of the wind had died down, taking her hand gently in his. He could still feel the heat of her fingertips, even through the soft leather of his gloves; she didn't protest as he led her inside. "I don't know about you but I haven't eaten all day."

Daenerys summoned Mya, who returned soon after with a small platter bearing different kinds of breads and cheeses, interspersed with a few pieces of tough meat. They ate in the same reception room, in the same velvet chairs and the same white curtains drawn to shut out the incessant howl of the snow.

"It's a miracle you're still alive." Dany said, taking a cracker and a small piece of meat. "When I heard what had happened, I thought for certain Rhaegal would burn you where you stood."

"As did I." He couldn't laugh about his experience, even in passing; whenever he thought about it too hard or for too long his head burned and he remembered all too well the feeling of pure peace-pitched with plenty of terror. "For a few moments, I was positive I was seconds away from a fiery death."

"What happened? The way he looked at you...it was almost like the two of you connected."

"I wish I could explain it. I think I threw him off a bit at first by appearing so suddenly but after that..I felt as though he was testing me in some way. I didn't feel afraid, really...I just sensed he wouldn't hurt me."

"It's not unheard of for someone outside the Targaryen lineage to form a bond with a dragon-though it's certainly not common."

"Or perhaps I'm just extremely lucky."

She shook her head with a small smile. "There's no luck when it comes to dragons. If he had wished you harm, you would be dead right now." He didn't know if that was meant to make him feel better, but it did regardless-slightly. "Perhaps he will need you in the wars to come."

He sensed she wasn't simply talking about her own conquest. Winter had arrived-and the world would tremble under the weight of ice and snow if they didn't stop what came with it.

~FAS~

After a long, hot bath that intentionally took up nearly the entire rest of the day, he got another blissful night's sleep in the Eyrie that night, cocooned in soft silks and smooth satins. Morning dawned clear and cold, weak winter sunlight smothered by the heavy drapes covering the windows-and with it, a renewed excitement and a promise of movement. Today they would leave for Gulltown, and after that would come Dragonstone.

Daenerys met him to break their fast on a simple meal of eggs and toasted bread. "Lord Baelish believes we will be ready to leave within the next two hours. We should be over the mountains within the next three days."

"Will you have enough ships?" It had occurred to him the previous night what a truly large fighting force they were, especially to transport by ship all the way to Dragonstone.

"Of course." The answer was too quick, too clipped, but he didn't press.

"We'll be on Dragonstone for at least a week...won't that give the Lannisters and Tyrells enough time to consolidate an army force against you?"

Her smile was genuine, punctuated by a dragon's roar somewhere in the valley outside. "I have dragons, sellswords, and alliances with several powerful families. I'd like to see them try. Let them throw their worst at us; I will win a decisive victory. I will not be threatened or intimidated; when I sit upon the Iron Throne, no one in the Seven Kingdoms will doubt my right to the throne."

Several swift knocks sounded upon the door, startling them both, and Littlefinger swept into the room in a wave of blue robes. "Your Highness," he said, bowing quickly in Dany's direction. Jon could only see his profile, but that was enough for him to realize that something was very wrong. He'd not known the Lord Protector of the Vale long, but he was certain that Littlefinger was the sort of person who fancied he held all of the cards and was used to manipulating people to get his way. However, he was not composed now; his hands, where they rested against his sides, were trembling and he looked slightly shaken. "There has been a raven out of King's Landing. His Majesty, Tommen Baratheon, the First of his Name, killed himself this morning."

Jon was half out of his seat before the news even registered fully; across the room, Dany remained impassive but even he could see the shock in her eyes. "How did this happen?"

"He threw himself from the window of the Red Keep. Apparently, he was alone; the Kingsguard was busy dealing with another tragedy." He cleared his throat and straightened the collar of his doublet imperceptibly. "The Sept of Baelor was destroyed by wildfire, killing hundreds-including Lord Tyrell and his son. It is widely believed that Cersei Lannister planned the attack instead of risking execution during her trial before the Seven; she has seized power and now proclaimed herself the queen of Westeros."

For a minute the news seemed too horrible to take in. Jon knew about the great Sept of Baelor, even if he'd never seen it; everyone had. It was the crowning jewel of religion in the Seven Kingdoms, with its statues of the gods and seven pointed stars, placed on Visenya's Hill in the early days of Westeros. It had been the site of countless coronations and funerals of the nobility-including his father's beheading. It was a symbol of Westeros older than time itself-and he'd assumed it would stay that way. He'd assumed Dany would be coronated there, in the place where Targaryen rulers had been coronated for generations. And now it was gone in a matter of minutes, burned by a mad queen who would rather kill hundreds of innocents than face her own crimes. And the victims themselves...he was a hardened warrior, he understood the need to take lives in times of war, but to kill so many so quickly-many of whom were completely innocent-was treasonous, wrong, and evil.

There had never been much color in Dany's skin to begin with but now she looked extremely pale. "It was utterly destroyed?"

"Burnt to the ground-to ashes, my lady. The bodies of those inside were not recovered and I don't believe they ever will be. Rebuilding efforts will be slow in coming-but for now, King's Landing is in a shaky semblance of peace."

"Not for long." Her eyes hardened and he could see more clearly than ever the Dragon Queen, who would do whatever it took to protect her people and claim what was rightfully hers. "I will kill Cersei Lannister and water the ground with her blood. I will avenge those murdered; a woman who cannot face her own crimes is not meant to be a queen-much less Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. How soon can we be on the move?"

"Within the hour, your Highness. I will tell them you grow restless." With that he was gone, blue hem disappearing around the corner of the open door. His boots clicked down the hallway, fading into the distance the farther away he got.

"We cannot stay here." Daenerys said as soon as he was out of earshot, pushing her plate to the center of the table as though disgusted by it and standing up as if she could no longer sit still. It was a feeling Jon knew well; he felt the same way. "We have wasted enough time as it is. A madwoman rules King's Landing and is killing my subjects needlessly. Time is of the essence."

"Perhaps she will listen to reason when she has no other choice-when she realizes that our host is on the march-"

"Or it will only make her angrier. She is already insane. She will not listen to reason-and that will make her dangerous." Her fingernails dug into her arms so hard Jon could see little white scratches forming on her smooth skin.

"The city will not be on her side-"

"That won't matter if she has more wildfire. If she uses it again Jon, we could all be doomed. Tyrion has told me about just how destructive it can be-apparently, my father kept some under the city in case of a siege-and if there's more of it, our job could be much harder."

He spoke as calmly as he could, knowing she needed to be calm before they moved forward. "Or she may have just delivered us more allies. The Tyrells are all but extinct-and I wouldn't be surprised to find she has driven them to your doorstep." _Targaryen, Stark, Tyrell, and Martell. An unstoppable force. An unholy alliance. She won't stand a chance, with wildfire or without it._

It took them nearly half a day to reunite with their troops, after bidding hasty farewells and words of thanks to Littlefinger and Lord Arryn. They had to travel back through the mountains, Mychel leading them down different pathways through the mountains that were usually cold and windy, making Jon worry all over again for their safety. By the time they were finally able to be on the move again the sun was just beginning to slip towards the western horizon; they marched until nearly moonrise, rejuvenated after their short rest and more than ready to reach King's Landing.

~FAS~

Nymeria didn't say much.

She said almost nothing for the entire journey across the Narrow Sea, preferring to stay ensconced in her cabin looking over maps of the Seven Kingdoms. Whispers about her spread over the ship-from the merchants in their richly decorated cabins, returning home after months of trade throughout the Free Cities and inquiring after the wives and children they had left behind; to the cabin stewards and their far off dreams of glory; to the few other passengers who had paid for a room and a few square meals, who spent their days strolling the cabin decks and revelling in the open air. No one knew who she was or where she had come from; some said she was a shadowbinder from Asshai while others believed she was a merchant's daughter whose father had been killed in Volantis after betting poorly in the fighting pits. No one talked to her and she never volunteered any information; she got off the boat as soon as it landed in Gulltown, worming her way among the people on the crowded deck until she was lost in the city itself. Her shipmates just as quickly forgot about her; she had been unimpressive in every way, with short dark hair and large dark eyes.

She stayed two days in an inn near the waterfront while she tried to get her bearings in a strange new world-one she barely remembered. It had been a long time since she had been to Westeros and much had changed. There was strange news in the air: the king was dead, the queen was insane and commanded a vast hoard of green fire that destroyed everything it touched, the Great Sept of Baelor was no more, and a pale haired dragon queen from the East was marching to King's Landing to save or destroy them all-in fact, she would be arriving in a couple of days' time to join her newly acquired Northern forces to the rest of her army. It was all the city could talk about: a Targaryen reborn, with silver hair, violet eyes, and three dragons so massive they blocked out the sun.

She saw the ships in the harbor: every one flying the black Targaryen standard over a different flag marked with a golden kraken. _The Iron Fleet,_ they told her, in between their frenzied cleaning and hasty stitching of dragon banners of their own. A few had old ones, saved from the days before the rebellion, yellowed and tattered by age but still waved proudly when caught by the right wind. _Yara Greyjoy seeks to make an alliance._

Daenerys Targaryen. The Stormborn. The Unburnt. The tales were almost fantastical-she walked through the flames of her husband's funeral pyre and walked out with three baby dragons. She had conquered Slaver's Bay and freed its slaves, renaming it the Bay of Dragons instead. She was a dragon rider. The slaves called her their mother. She had lain with a Dothraki horselord and could speak their strange, barbaric language. She was the most beautiful woman in the world. She bathed in the blood of infants and virgins to keep her beauty. She was Azor Ahai. She was the Prince who was Promised. She was a devil, a heathen, some heretics claimed. She would doom the world to shadow. She was a savior. She was a killer. She was a queen. She would destroy Queen Cersei and reduce King's Landing to rubble.

Only one thing, Nymeria thought, was certain: she was on her way.

Nymeria didn't care much about the Dragon Queen one way or the other. She was a politician-and politicians were always ruthless. Why did it matter if she was any different than Joffrey or Cersei? The Seven Kingdoms would always have a monarch; why did it matter whether she was a Lannister or a Targaryen, a Tyrell or a Martell? The common people would always lose. In fact, she wanted to leave the city and head north to Winterfell-her family was at Winterfell, she was certain of that; the castle was theirs. Her older sister had been pronounced Queen in the North; Nymeria wondered if she would still recognize her, after all these years. Was she the same as she'd always been? Probably not. The only people who survived the Game of Thrones were the people who'd adapted and changed.

She'd certainly changed over the last six years; she was certain of that.

But the city was full of people. More and more flooded in every day, from all over the surrounding towns and cities. They talked in excited voices about the Queen; some of them had seen her at Winterfell, when she'd talked to the common people and told them about the Free Cities. Her hair was like white silk, her voice like a smooth river. She was nothing like her father, nothing like the Lannisters-and she would have her throne back. She would rule the Seven Kingdoms; her right to rule was divine. It almost made Nymeria sick; they seemed to worship her, and soon everyone else was worshipping her too. The town was filled with Targaryen flags, the inns were full to capacity, and the traffic was so bad she couldn't have gotten out on foot-much less in a wagon. So, whether she liked it or not, Nymeria was stuck. She wandered restlessly up and down the waterfront, watching those ships bobbing in the harbor and stealing between shops and taverns to listen to people talk.

Then she heard someone bring up the hero of the Battle of Winterfell-Jon Snow, the Stark bastard who had refused legitimization to aid the Dragon Queen in her conquest and lead the Northern forces to victory in King's Landing. That was when she got excited; she'd once had a brother with that same name, a brother who had liked to play with swords and dream about things he could could never be and never have. He'd given her Needle, her sword that she still carried with her everywhere she went just in case.

The column passed through two days later, on a clear but cold winter morning with the sun shining through a frosty blue sky. Nymeria was roused at dawn like everyone else, lured from her room at the inn by the commotion in the tavern below. The streets were crowded with people; only a few hedge knights dressed in what looked like homemade armor yelled at everyone to stay back-needless to say, they weren't having much of an impact. She tried to push her way to the front of the crowd but found her way blocked by an almost impenetrable wall of people. The shouting grew louder and louder as the minutes passed-and as, presumably, the soldiers came closer to the main square. She found herself on the balls of her feet, tense and waiting for whatever would come next. There was always the chance that the man had been wrong, but she doubted it-after all, how many resurrected bastards named Jon Snow could there really be?

Suddenly the shouting reached a fever pitch and she found herself on the tips of her toes craning to see over the people in front of her. There was a moment of expectation and cautious wonder-and then the first set of horses rounded the corner of the square.

Her eyes quickly took in the four men dressed completely in black who rode in front of, behind, and on either side of the Queen in tight formation. Although it looked like they were doing their best to keep their cool it was obvious they were affected by the crowd's runaway love just as much as the woman they were supposed to be protecting; they were grinning and even waving, dressed proudly in their Night's Watch robes.

And then of course there was the Queen herself. The rumors hadn't been wrong-she _was_ beautiful. Her long blonde hair had been pulled back into braids, but quite a bit of it still hung long down her back. Her smile was radiant as she looked at everyone crowding the square wall to wall, hanging out of windows or climbing up onto rooftops and shouting to get her attention. She truly looked like a queen-capable and confident, without the harsh and cruel edge Queen Cersei gave off from three miles away. For just a moment, Nymeria allowed herself to be swept away with the crowd's frenzied excitement and imagine a world where this woman was queen-a better world, even. Their excitement propelled her long and gave her a wild hope, just for a moment…until she saw the man riding by her side. The man wearing the Stark direwolf on his jerkin, with the curly dark hair she could have recognized even in her sleep-the man who didn't look like he'd changed a bit since the days when she used to watch him play at swords in Winterfell's training yard so long ago.

Suddenly, it didn't matter that there were rows of people separating her from her brother. She was shoving her way through them, screaming his name over and over until she thought she would lose her voice. Past the villagers with their disapproving faces, past merchants in their fancy Tyroshi silks, even past the hedge knights who yelled at her to stop-and Nymeria fell away, leaving Arya Stark in her place.

Jon's head swiveled towards her and she saw the recognition-coupled with disbelief-flash in his eyes. Of course there was disbelief; he hadn't seen her since she left Winterfell so long ago. No one had. As far as the rest of the world knew, the youngest Stark daughter was just another name on a page-presumed dead, most likely. But not anymore-and never again would she fade into the background.

And then she was there, running straight past the Queen to reach his horse, even as he jumped down into the street to meet her halfway and pull her into a bone crushing hug. Before she could stop them tears began to stream down her face-large, wet tears borne from large, hiccuping sobs as he held her tightly. She whispered his name over and over again, hugging him as tightly as she possibly could and running her hand over his jerkin again and again to make sure it was really him, to make sure he wasn't going to leave her. _Father's dead Mother's dead Robb's dead Bran's dead Rickon's dead how are you not dead too?_ She resolved at that moment to never let him go, not until they were reunited with Sansa and they could be a family again.

"Arya." he whispered, voice cracking from disbelief. "Arya, is that really you?"

"Of course it's me." she replied, working hard to force out the words between sobs that felt they were tearing her lungs out. "It's me. Jon, I heard you were dead. They...they said your men murdered you."

"They said you were dead too. How did you survive? How are you here?"

She wanted to tell him everything-all about Harrenhal, Gendry, the Hound, the Red Wedding, the House of Black and White, the Waif, all of it. But before she could she was suddenly ripped away from him by one of the hedge knights, obviously trying to keep some semblance of order. Around them, the crowd seemed to be coming apart at the seams. They shouted, screamed, and pressed forward to get a look at the commotion; Targaryen banners still raised high. But none of that mattered to Arya; all that mattered was the man who was unfortunate enough to try and separate her from her brother. "Let me go!"

"You're not supposed to be here, missy. Back to the rabble with you." He tried to toss her away but she spun out of his grasp easily, stomping down hard on his foot and twisting his arm to send him sprawling. Her eyes met Jon's: _Make them stop it. Tell them who I am! Tell them that I'm coming with you!_

As it turned out, her rescue came from a different source. "Release her. Now." The voice wasn't cold so much as it was firm, ordering and expecting to be obeyed. The knight reacted instantly, dropping into a low bow and allowing Arya to walk back to Jon's side; the crowd had gone completely silent. "I would like to talk with her myself." The Queen was looking at her, violet eyes appraising her brown ones in a way that didn't seem as judgmental as it did simply curious. "Who are you, girl?"

"This is my sister, Arya Stark, your Grace." Jon answered for her. "Up until now, she was presumed dead."

"Presumed dead...tell me, Arya, if you were presumed dead, how do you come to be standing before me today- years after you went missing?"

She looked around at the crowd all watching her as though she were some oddity that had fallen from the sky. "It's a rather long story. Your Grace." she added hastily, figuring she should probably get on the Queen's good side if she wanted to be reunited with Jon in any capacity. "Perhaps we could talk it over...later?"

For a second Daenerys listed her head imperceptibly to the side, considering the possibilities, before she nodded once. "Very well then. Lord Snow, do you trust her?"

Jon responded immediately. "She is my kin, your Grace. I would trust her with my very life."

"As you say. Arya of House Stark, you will travel with us on your brother's good faith until we figure out what can be done with you. Bring a horse." she added to one of her guards, who immediately turned and galloped down the column to repeat the Queen's request. Once a horse-a black gelding with the prettiest brown eyes Arya had ever seen-had been procured, Arya mounted and made to ride off. However, Jon stopped her; Daenerys was obviously going to address the crowd. "People of the North: those of you who are in this square will always remember this day. You will remember it for as long as you live, and when you are no longer old enough to remember anything you will tell it to your children and grandchildren so that they might remember it instead. This is the day you saw a dynasty restored-and your true queen!"

The cheers of the adoring crowd accompanied them long after they left the square and angled off towards the waterfront.

Jon nudged her as they rode, grinning so broadly his eyes seemed to shine. "She's not that bad really, once you get to know her."

"She didn't turn me away. I already guessed that. How did you get _here,_ of all places? I would have thought you would be back at Winterfell, relishing the fact that for once you weren't being judged by your parentage but rather by your honor as a Stark."

He smiled, but she could sense there was something beyond it-some part of him, maybe, that hadn't yet given up on that dream. "Sansa deserves it more than I do-and as for the rest of it, it's a long story. What about you? Where have you been since Father's beheading?"

She couldn't stop smiling, not when things were finally falling into place and she felt she was the closest to home she'd been since the day she'd set out with the rest of the caravan headed to King's Landing and whatever lay beyond. She was with her brother, her sister was safe, Winterfell was theirs, and the Lannisters would soon be brought to their knees. For the first time in years, Arya Stark felt truly happy. "It's a long story."

~FAS~

Daenerys had certainly been expecting ships-but she hadn't been expecting quite this many. She knew her forces had been pressed for space as it was, they wouldn't be able to spare many ships and the Northerners would have to make do with what they could get. And yet the ships amassed in front of her seemed more like a fleet than a contingent. Then she noticed the flag flying from each of the ship's masts: a golden kraken on a black background. _Greyjoys._ But as far as she knew, the Greyjoys were on the other side of the country and hadn't offered much interest in alliances of any kind. _Tyrion, what else happened while I was away?_

"Do you know them?" Jon asked, pulling his horse to a stop next to hers and looking just as confused as she did.

"I don't think so." She leapt down from her horse easily, walking to the riverfront to meet the woman who was already waiting for her in front of the largest ship in the fleet-there had to be at least forty ships in the harbor and more waiting in the open waterways. Wearing a black jerkin with a golden kraken on it, the visitor looked like she was used to traveling on open ocean herself; her brown hair looked tossed by years of salt spray and her very bearing exuded an easy confidence from years traveling the seas.

"So what Tyrion Lannister said was true-you _were_ passing through Gulltown. We've been camped here for days; I was beginning to think we should simply sail back to Dragonstone and wait for you there." she said, meeting Dany's eye coolly. "Yara Greyjoy, your Majesty. If it pleases you, I would present you the Iron Fleet to aid you in your conquest of Westeros. One hundred ships, of the very finest quality."

She couldn't deny that ships were exactly what her rapidly expanding army needed-unless of course she wanted her troops to swim across Blackwater Bay-but, as with all negotiations, Dany knew to be wary. "I've heard stories about this famed Iron Fleet-and I've heard there are far more than one hundred ships."

"You're correct-however, the other ships are in the hands of my uncle, Euron. He came back to Pyke after long years away, murdered my father, and took the crown for himself. There is no one to challenge his claim-my father had no more brothers, his only son is either dead or as good as, and the Iron Islanders would rather trust a kingslayer with a mouthful of lies and empty promises than allow a woman who has proved herself time and time again to be a capable captain at sea to sit the Salt Throne. He's building a bigger fleet as we speak; when he's finished, he intends to present them to you along with his hand in marriage-and trust me, your Grace, this is not a union you want to involve yourself in. He wants the Iron Throne for himself, and he'll have you murdered as soon as he deems you've outlived your usefulness." Daenerys smirked; she had no intention of even considering marriage prospects until the throne was hers-and Euron Greyjoy was far off her radar.

"And I suppose you want my help in securing the throne that is rightfully yours?"

"And murdering an uncle who doesn't believe that girls can be rulers of men." It sounded like a manageable task-and necessary, if she stood a chance of securing her own throne in Westeros.

"Has a woman ever sat the Salt Throne?"

"No more than a woman has ever sat the Iron Throne-but that doesn't seem to be much of a deal breaker to you." She gestured to the rows upon rows of Northern soldiers, waiting for her command to prepare for boarding. "The ships I have brought you are the best in the fleet, and their crews are loyal and competent. They will serve you well."

"I'm sure they will." She decided to cut to the chase; the sun was riding across the sky as they spoke and she wanted to be well on her way by the time the tide went back out. "Is vengeance all you seek-or does your offer have another clause?"

"The Ironborn have always been a neglected people, your Majesty. I merely seek the opportunity to govern them as I will; your ancestors conquered us long ago and I simply ask for it back."

"Certainly manageable." She wished for a second that Tyrion was here to advise her; she didn't want to make a foolish decision. But she also knew, just as surely, that decisions like these were hers to make; if she wanted to be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, she had to learn to rely on her own judgment. And she judged that Yara spoke the truth-her demands were reasonable and her ships were badly needed. "I've heard tell that your father was a terrible king."

The Ironborn smiled a quick smile, as though it had come out almost unintentionally. "I've heard the same about yours."

"They were both awful rulers-and they both left the world worse than they found it. But we'll be different; we'll make the world better. And when we leave it, our subjects will remember us for being kind and just rulers-not tyrants." With that, they shook on it and the deal was struck. "We'll sail for Dragonstone and meet with the rest of the fleet there. Ready your men and make the final preparations for sailing."

She felt rather than heard Jon dismount and come to her side, watching their new ally as she headed to the nearest ship and called something unintelligible to one of the many sailors scrambling among the masts and rigging like sea monkeys. "It looks like my soldiers will have more space now; they will appreciate that."

"It won't change things _that_ much." Dany replied, watching the heads of each delegation trying to arrange themselves into neat groups and shouting over each other to be heard. The docks rang with their yells, joining the yells of the Ironborn at sea and the townspeople on land, the crack of wooden masts as the boats shifted in the harbor, and the snap of flags on tall flagpoles. An air of excitement hung in the air; they were finally on their way. For most of the Northerners, this would be their first time in the real South-including Jon. "They'll still have to share rooms."

"I think they're all used to that by now."

"This is your first journey below the Neck isn't it, Lord Snow?" She wondered how hard it would be for the wolf to shed his fur pelt as the temperature climbed.

"Yes it is. I've heard that the capital is beautiful this time of year-although Highgarden is undisputedly the most beautiful castle in the Seven Kingdoms. A pity we won't be stopping at the Reach."

"On the goodwill tour back north, perhaps.I'm sure they would be eager to welcome home heroes of the war." She caught sight of Arya standing near the back of a regiment of soldiers dressed in the colors of House Mormont, looking as though she had no idea where to go or what to do. "Your sister doesn't act much like a lady of Winterfell."

Jon laughed. "She never did. She would always rather play at swords than with dolls and my mother despaired of marrying her off. But she _is_ kind, underneath that exterior of hers; loyal to a fault to the people she cares about, and extremely trustworthy." He cleared his throat; she wondered if the reality was still sinking in for him. Just this morning, he'd thought she was dead-they all had. "Thank you for not turning her away."

"How could I? She's kin of yours-and little more than a child besides. Although I am quite excited to hear what she's been up to these past few years."

Jon laughed. "So am I. I think I'm going to make sure she settles in all right, perhaps find her a room on one of the ships. I trust you're busy as well?"

"Yes, of course." She was always busy these days-and her duties would only increase once she reached Dragonstone, with advisors to speak to, armies to command, and plans to go over again and again until she could conquer Westeros in her sleep. Strangely, this moment felt like the first moment of peace she'd had in quite a long time; it was almost a pity to let it go so soon. "I'll see you and Arya later, I assume?"

"Of course." He gave her one last smile and disappeared into the crowd, while she headed for her ship: it was the largest ship in the harbor of course, with a neatly carved dragon at its helm and a Targaryen banner snapping in the wind high above her head. She couldn't help feeling a thrill of excitement as every sailor she passed snapped to a sudden attention as soon as she passed them and her dragons circled high above her and made strange screeching noises every now and then with all of the excitement. Now, more than ever, she was on the home stretch. She had ships, she had allies, and she was returning to her birthplace. After nearly six years, the pieces were finally beginning to fall into place.

Now, more than ever, she was going home.

~FAS~

Regaining control of Dragonstone had been almost laughably easy.

Once stronghold of Stannis Baratheon, now his forces were all but scattered-they put up a defense that could hardly be called a battle and had easily been either taken prison, swore fealty to the Dragon Queen, or thrown themselves off of the castle's intricately carved ramparts. The Targaryen forces had wasted no time setting up camp in the Queen's absence; the members of the inner circle had staked out their own lodgings in the citadel itself while footsoldiers camped on the rest of the island proper or even on their own ships once they ran out of room. The Dothraki had claimed the eastern coast as their own and no one was willing to argue; everyone gave them quite a large berth.

It had fallen to Tyrion to get things in order; a task he had applied himself to with great fervor. Although he was less than pleased that Daenerys had decided to go gallivanting off to the North (in the middle of her own conquest, no less) with little to no advanced warning, she'd somehow managed to make an alliance with Sansa Stark and gained another twelve thousand troops.

Sansa Stark, the Queen in the North...it was always odd to hear his former wife's name used in that context. When he'd known her she'd been a scared girl, naive and easily manipulated-and now she'd grown to rule the most powerful castle in the North. He couldn't say he wasn't proud of her; she'd deserved better than Joffrey and the writhing mess of vipers that was King's Landing.

And then there had been the Greyjoys, who had arrived almost as soon as the Targaryen banner had been raised and demanded an audience with Daenerys. Tyrion had spent nearly six hours treating with Yara, trying to learn everything he could about her before he sent her off to Gulltown. Although he didn't exactly have good relations with the Greyjoys-he could still remember how Prince Theon had taunted him at Winterfell (although to be fair, who hadn't back in those days)-Yara seemed intelligent, sane, and forthright. Not to mention the fact that the Targaryen fleet needed more ships after what had happened in Meereen. They'd worked out the rudimentary details of the Alliance and then he'd sent a third of the Iron Fleet to meet Daenerys and her soldiers in Gulltown-and now Viserion had arrived with a letter from the Queen saying they were on their way.

"I'm sure you're sick of acting like a raven, aren't you?" he asked, tossing the golden dragon a slaughtered sheep (one of the 'dragon treats' he kept on hand for instances like this). Although Viserion certainly had warmed up to him and he didn't necessarily worry about the dragon suddenly turning on him-all of the time, at least-Tyrion still approached the creature with a healthy dose of caution born from years of reading cautionary tales about men who had tried to tame dragons and been maimed or killed terribly for their efforts. "If you're anything like your brothers, you probably believe it's beneath you-but I must thank you for your services. I'll be glad too, once your mother arrives."

There was still the small problem of what to do with the man who called himself Aegon Targaryen, who Tyrion had confined to a few rooms in the castle to wait for Daenerys's arrival. There was no possible way he could be who he said he was...and yet his hair and eyes certainly matched those of his supposed father. The only person who had any way of knowing whether or not the boy's story was true had died just before the host arrived, from greyscale; for all intents and purposes, he was simply another usurper-another wrench in the Queen's plans.

A soldier ran out onto the veranda and stopped near the doorway, bowing respectfully and waiting for Tyrion to turn around. "My lord, Aegon would like to see you now. He wishes to discuss what will happen to him upon the Queen's arrival."

He sighed, leaving Viserion to finish the snack in peace. "Tell him I'm on my way." He had done all he could to make the boy comfortable and still keep him out from underfoot-the last thing he wanted to do was have word get out that there was another Targaryen campaigning for the Iron Throne. For the most part, Aegon was being compliant enough; he often complained about being bored but he followed all of Tyrion's instructions and didn't cause any problems.

Aegon was seated by the window next to his bed, still draped in the yellow and black of House Baratheon, reading a book-though he got to his feet impatiently when Tyrion arrived. At first glance Tyrion had thought he was looking at a ghost;the man sitting in front of him had Rhaegar's long, lanky figure and white blond hair that brushed his shoulders. His eyes were a startlingly vibrant shade of violet in a way that was strongly reminiscent of Dany's. His mannerisms, even the way he carried himself, spoke volumes to a dynasty that should have died long ago; it was altogether too much like looking at a ghost. "Has my aunt returned yet?"

"Not yet, though she's on her way-and when she does return, I would suggest for your own sake that you not address her as such."

He sighed. "How can I prove to you that I am who I say I am-the true son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Elia Martell, heir to my father's throne?"

"I think you'll find that a hard task to accomplish, considering the only man who could have vouched for you is dead from greyscale-and if you're waiting for Daenerys to hand over her birthright, you'll be waiting for a very long time."

"I don't wish to take her throne-gods know if it weren't for her our family would still be in ashes. I merely wish to help her rule."

"A marriage alliance of some sort?" He needed more wine. "I believe the Queen will be looking to wed someone from one of the great houses, to cement her right to rule."

Aegon scoffed. "Who will she wed? The Tyrells are all but extinct, the Martells killed off their last available male heirs, the Stark boys were pronounced dead ages ago, and all that remains of the Lannisters are a scattering of hedge knights and glorified bankers. I fear her options are extremely limited-and the Targaryen bloodline must be kept strong for future generations. You must understand that I am the best option she has."

"I trust Daenerys will make that decision for herself." Tyrion replied coldly. "If you don't mind me asking, how exactly did you manage to survive the horrors that befell your mother and sister for all these years without bringing the likes of the royal family down upon you?"

"The Targaryens have many supporters. I was rescued-and ever since, I have been groomed to claim my birthright." He gave Tyrion a smile that seemed like it was trying too hard to be regal. "And now I am ready to take my place in a larger world. I ask your help-I cannot conquer the Seven Kingdoms alone. I don't wish to take my aunt's throne-but I do demand recognition." He sighed and Tyrion fancied, just for a moment, that he could see through the cracks in his hastily constructed armor. "It's the least I can do for my parents and sister."

"When the Queen arrives, I will arrange a meeting as soon as I can. She will decide the truth in your claims. Have a good day." He left, hoping for Aegon's sake the so-called prince wouldn't do anything he'd regret later; while everyone was certainly jubilant, there was an underlying tension to the air that was liable to invent enemies when there weren't any there-and if it came to that, he knew of quite a few people who would be happy to run a false claimant off one of Dragonstone's many battlements.

Another messenger ran up to him, bowing so low his chestnut brown hair flopped into his face. "Lord Tyrion, our scouts have spotted ships from the Iron Fleet approaching from upriver. We believe our Queen may be among them."

 _Finally._ "Very well then. Alert the populace-we're going to show her a welcome she won't soon forget." Aegon could wait another few hours. He had other, more pressing, matters to attend to.

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	10. The Forgotten Targaryen

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The ancient fortress of Dragonstone towered in front of the bow of the ship, a splotch of darkness amid the glowing sunset. It was large and grandiose, made of polished black stones that seemed to glow in the weak sunlight-and every square inch of it, as far as Jon could see, was covered in the carved statues of dragons. Little dragons smaller than dogs, dragons three times his size, dragons with spikes, dragons with horns, dragons roaring, dragons resting, dragons flying, dragons of every description seemed to stare out of their walls and directly at the approaching ships. It looked like a Targaryen stronghold in every sense of the word-regardless of the three headed dragon standard waving at its top. It was extremely impressive, nearly taking his breath away with its sheer ferocity.

The island itself was filled nearly to bursting-the port was filled with ships jostling for room at anchor while tents of all shapes, colors, and descriptions covered the spaces around the castle like a rippling patchwork quilt. He couldn't imagine that with all these families and soldiers at her back, Daenerys had any real opposition to the Iron Throne. How could the Mad Queen, who had managed to make enemies with all of Westeros, possibly be able to mount a defence against her?

Said dragon queen stood next to him, eyes also fixed on the castle in front of her. He'd barely seen her at all for the entire trip downriver; she'd been ensconced in meeting after meeting with Yara Greyjoy or one of her other advisors-and he knew that would only get worse once they made landfall. He couldn't say he was used to it though; for the last fortnight he'd grown used to being roused at odd hours of the day and night to ride by her side or teach her to swordfight or simply talk to her while they took a meal in the almost eerie silence of her tent. Of course, he had Arya-and they had plenty to catch up on-but he still had the strange, uncomfortable feeling that he simply wasn't needed until they reached King's Landing. However, unlike most days when she was talking to dignitaries or making alliances, Dany seemed genuinely happy-no mask today. He **supposed** there was no need for it; everyone was excited. Why shouldn't she be happy too? "You seem especially thoughtful today, your Grace."

She raised an eyebrow at him, the way she always did when he called her by title. He wouldn't have, normally-it had taken some time but he now felt comfortable calling her Dany at least when they were in private. But they were in an open space and he wasn't sure who could overhear them-and the last thing he wanted was someone asking questions, making assumptions, and spreading rumors. He was only a commander after all-he knew the fact that he even spent half as much time with the Queen as he did was apt for suspicion. "This is where I was born-in a terrible storm, a year after Robert's Rebellion. My mother died soon after-my brother always told me that she was never able to even hold me in her arms." She cleared her throat, as if trying to cover up such a personal disclosure. "I've always wondered if that's why he was so cruel to me-because she traded her life for mine and he highly preferred one over the other."

Jon looked at the fortress, trying to imagine a baby being born between those imposing black walls-a small child with the power to raze cities, though no one would know it at the time. An orphan, like so many in the Seven Kingdoms, with only a brother left to her name-and from what she'd told him about Viserys, not a very good one at that. "No one ever said family would be perfect." He knew that better than anyone; he was also an outcast. But at least he'd had five siblings and a father who acknowledged him-even if he was always the odd one out.

That seemed to remind her. "How's Arya?"

"She's settling in. She explores the ship most of the day and stands on deck to watch the sailors at work. They don't know who she is-they call her Shadow of the Deck because she's always there, standing just out of the way." He still couldn't get over the sheer unbelievability of her story-how she'd served at Harrenhal and met Tywin Lannister, spent time traveling with rogues, assassins, and people worse than that, and even lived in the Free Cities for a time. But here she was-alive and well, for all intensive purposes. His family, back from the dead. He wanted to send Sansa a letter, but no ravens were being sent out until they reached Dragonstone for logistical reasons-though it appeared he wouldn't have to wait too much longer. "She's indebted to you. Thank you for not turning her away."

"She's your family-how could I do anything but wish you the greatest of happiness?" she replied simply as Dragonstone drew ever closer.

"Admiring the view?" They both turned to meet Yara, who strode across the deck with the gait of an experienced seaman. Jon couldn't imagine being on a ship long enough to be that comfortable-although he wasn't getting sick constantly, like the majority of his men, he knew he'd be happy enough once the land beneath his feet wasn't liable to float away. She had to have crossed over from one of the other ships; he'd seen the rope ladders the islands constructed that they could raise between ships at a moment's notice-and then the precarious game of balance it took to cross them. He was lucky for his high rank to have given him a place on the royal standard; it wasn't a game he particularly wanted to play. "I was hoping we could finalize landing plans, your Majesty."

"Of course. Do your ships know where to dock?" They drifted away a few paces, engrossed in talk of strategies and people he didn't know. That left him staring out at the choppy water, eyes flicking back towards the two women every now and then almost habitually. Dany's blonde hair was braided as always; apart from that time in Winterfell's great hall, he didn't think he'd ever seen it down. It sparkled in the late afternoon sunlight, making her stand out among the browns and blacks of the other ships with a kind of confidence-she controlled the island, the fleet, and the army and she knew it. She was a queen, that much was plain; she'd been preparing for this invasion for years. He could only imagine how it felt to see all of her plans coming to fruition and her wildest dreams well in reach.

Yara left to give the orders to the rest of the crew and Dany returned to his side. "We'll make landfall in about ten minutes." she said almost reverently; the fortress was drawing close and the dragons peering down at them seemed particularly intimidating. For the first time, Jon realized what she'd meant at Winterfell about how she felt she didn't belong; he was a wolf among dragons and even he knew he wasn't exactly welcome. But for her, this was her true homecoming.

He leaned against the railing, shoulder brushing hers, and the docks drew nearer.

~FAS~

Daenerys felt that her return to Dragonstone was nothing less than triumphant.

Nearly her entire table of advisors had turned out to meet her: Tyrion, Jorah, Daario, and a bald man she assumed must be Varys. Tyrion had told him about her before-how he was called the Master of Whispers and had gone to Westeros to create alliances for her among the great houses. Her Unsullied lined the docks, standing silent sentry at regular intervals. The rest of the island was a hive of motion; even from her perch on the deck of the royal standard, she could see the Dothraki far in the distance and the castle swarming with servants and soldiers alike. They looked like a proper army: organized and prepared for the inevitable march into battle.

She scanned the gigantic fortress, carved of cool grey stone and fashioned into the shape of dragon after dragon, and wondered if she should feel any stab of recognition. This was her home, after all-her true birthplace. This was where her very first ancestors-Aegon the Conqueror and his sister wives Visenya and Rhaenys-had made their stronghold before the invaded Westeros. And yet, she felt nothing that told her she had been here before-just another reminder of where she had come from and what she had to uphold-as she walked down the roughly hewn wooden gangplank and took her first steps onto Westerosi soil.

"Welcome back, Khaleesi." Jorah said, bowing reverently. Her oldest, truest advisor-who she still didn't know if she could trust, even though she had banished him twice and he always managed to come back to her. Daario also cut a mocking bow, though his eyes glittered with mischief. She could already tell he would want to sleep with her tonight; she would need to talk to him about how things like that simply could not be done here. This wasn't the Bay of Dragons, where no one cared who their rulers slept with-Westeros was far more traditional, and there was simply no place for her to have a paramour. She had considered leaving him in Meereen to help with the transition of power, but he commanded the Storm Crows and was influential to many leaders of other sellsword groups as well; the fact that he was standing here bowing to her was not due to any personal feelings on her part. She knew he loved her, but he had never been anything more than a vacation or a distraction-certainly nobody serious. She wondered, briefly, if this should concern her-but there were other things to attend to at the moment.

"Your Grace." Varys said with a low bow.

"Master of Whispers." she replied. "I trust you were successful in Westeros?"

"I am pleased to say I was. Cersei Lannister made some very powerful enemies when she burned the Sept of Baelor to the ground-the Dornish are more than willing to treat with you, and the Tyrells are traveling to Sunspear as we speak. You will command a formidable army by the time we set our sights toward King's Landing, your Majesty."

He bowed deeply and she tried not to smile. Five of the great families would support her claim; how could the Mad Queen possibly hope to stop her? "Thank you, Lord Varys."

"Of course. Anything to see you restored to the throne that is rightfully yours." His voice was perfectly pitched, and perfectly flattering-it was clear he'd spent time among the nobility of King's Landing and had learned how to play their games. He would be a formidable ally-that is, if she could trust him not to betray her.

That left Tyrion, the Hand of the Queen pin she'd had made for him glittering proudly at his lapel. "Next time I should hope you would give me a bit more notice before going away to fight a battle, my Queen." In spite of his words his tone was light, as though he had already forgiven her.

"It was a short battle-and it earned us more allies. Is that not beneficial?" she replied, glancing at the dozens of ships at anchor in the harbor-each flying a Targaryen flag. "I would like to call a small council meeting in three hours' time, once the Northerners have been settled in. It seems we have much to discuss." She glanced back at Jon and Arya, who were still standing on the ship's deck looking horribly out of place. "That is Jon Snow, son of the late Eddard Stark of Winterfell and commander of the Northern forces, and his younger sister Arya. I trust that they will be given accommodations befitting their rank."

"Of course." Tyrion said, glancing at Jon as he gestured towards a servant dressed in red and black livery who rushed forward instantly. "Your Grace, if I may take a few minutes of your time there is a matter I would like to discuss with you."

Instantly she remembered the pretender he'd mentioned in his letter: the imposter who was soiling the name of her murdered nephew Aegon. "As you wish." The crowd dispersed around them; the Unsullied stood at attention until she had passed by and the Ironborn oversaw the unloading of the Northerners. Her small council dispersed in the doorway: Jorah to check on the Dothraki, Daario the Stormcrows, Varys the ravens, and Jon and Arya to be taken to their rooms.

Though the day outside was hot, Dragonstone had a definite chill in the air as its great front doors swung open. The entire castle was made of the same dreary grey stone, with small sputtering candles set in wall sconces every few feet the only illumination. The dragon motif continued indoors, from tapestries on the walls to carved statues of dragons acting as bookends, cloak hooks, and even end tables. It was massive-every hallway they passed branched off into dozens of smaller passages and doorways; Daenerys knew she could easily become lost, and marveled at the way Tyrion knew where to go almost instinctively though he hadn't been here much longer than she had. It seemed as though they walked for an hour-climbing staircase after staircase and passing through door after door, heading steadily upwards. Finally, Tyrion stopped in front of a simple black stone door and pulled a key out of the pocket of his jerkin. "He's through here, your Grace."

"Is there anyone to vouch for him?"

"No one alive. There was a man with him when he came to meet us, but he had greyscale and soon died. His name was Jon Connington; he was a friend of your brother Rhaegar's before the rebellion. However, any testimony he may have given us as to the boy's true identity died with him."

Of course it did. "And what does this false prince say he wants? The Iron Throne?" Was there anyone who didn't?

"I assume so-but he says he will settle for a formal acknowledgment and your hand in marriage."

"Do you believe he is a true Targaryen?"

"I was quite young when Robert seized the throne. I certainly never saw Prince Aegon or his sister-and he was just a babe in arms then, so I cannot say if he looks like a true claimant."

She nodded simply. "I will test him with fire. If he is a true dragon, he will not burn." With that, she opened the door.

Immediately her eyes were drawn to the figure seated at the window, a book lying forgotten in his lap as he watched the hive of activity taking place in the harbor. At first she was struck by how much he looked like Viserys-and like Rhaegar, at least how she'd always imagined her older brother would look. His hair was light as corn milk, brushing just past his shoulders-and his eyes, when he turned to look at her, were a startling shade of green and violet. When he saw her looking he smiled broadly, revealing a mouth of perfectly white teeth. "Daenerys." he said, nodding a respectful acknowledgement as she hovered just inside the doorway uncertainly. "Please, come in."

She took a couple of steps forward so she could get a better look at him. "My advisor tells me that you claim to be my long dead nephew, Aegon the sixth of his name."

"That is correct, except for one fact-I do not claim to be your nephew, Daenerys. I truly am Prince Aegon-and I am ready to help you reclaim the throne that is ours by right." She didn't miss the way he said ours, not yours-though he didn't say mine. Not yet, at least.

"You may say that, and for all I know you may very well believe it-but I need evidence. Follow me." He fell in step beside her without question or complaint, while Tyrion kept trying to catch her eye as if begging her to reconsider.

The lawns were swarming with people but she walked past them all-walking towards the dragon pens, which were largely abandoned. Although they were nothing compared to the Dragonpits in King's Landing, which could hold thousands of people if need be, they were more than substantial for Drogon, Viserion, and Rhaegal-and the dragons landed there whenever they came back from a hunting trip, as though they could sense those who had come before them. Drogon and Rhaegal were nowhere to be found-probably still hunting-but Viserion was waiting for them, mutilating a sheep carcass with the sharp edges of his knife like teeth. She saw Aegon tense next to her as he realized what she would ask him to do, but she didn't allow herself to stop walking. The Targaryens had tamed dragons for centuries; if he was who he said he was, he would walk out alive. And if he really was simply a mummer's farce, Viserion would recognize him as an enemy and burn him to ashes. "This is Viserion." she said quietly, stopping about ten feet away from her reptilian son-who looked at her and gave a soft trill, as if in greeting. "Have you ever seen a dragon before, Aegon?"

He looked shocked, eyes larger than dinner plates as he took in the marvel before him of scale, bone, sinew, and muscle. "Not until today."

"Surely you must be intrigued? Why don't you take a step closer? You are a Targaryen, after all-he should be your birthright."

Aegon's adams apple rose and fell but he stepped forward, feet sinking into the worn grass. Viserion's large golden eyes swivelled to watch him, fixing him with a pointed stare. Instantly, the prince stopped moving and waited; Dany could tell he was shaking as the dragon lumbered forward, golden sunlight from the setting sun glimmering off golden scales. Three steps, then four-slowly but steadily closing the gap between them. Though Viserion wasn't the biggest of her children, he was still more than formidable-especially when he was at least thrice the prince's size.

For a moment they just stared at each other, man and beast locked in silent connection. The air was practically singing with tension, waiting for a roar that would shake the ground and char flesh to ash as easily as drawing oxygen...that never came. Instead, Aegon reached out a hand tentatively and rested it on one of the golden scales on the dragon's flank, breathing heavily-though he'd stopped shaking so hard. Viserion simply waited quietly, eyes calculated but intelligent. He huffed quietly, smoke streaming from his nostrils and singeing the sleeve of the prince's (extremely finely crafted) red tunic-though even from her distance Daenerys could see that the skin beneath remained untouched. Finally he turned and took off, not sparing even a glance back as his powerful wings took him high into the air. Slowly, Aegon let his hand fall. "Seven hells." he muttered quietly.

"Roll up your sleeve." Daenerys replied; he did so haltingly, as though afraid she would stab him right there. The skin of his lower arm was still unblemished; a shiver ran down her spine, though she couldn't tell whether it was one of dread or excitement.

He looked up at her and she was surprised to find her own expression mirrored in those startling eyes of his: halting reverence intermingled with disbelief. "They told me about you-my aunt across the sea, who would never set foot on Westeros or face risking the wrath of the Usurper. I've heard the stories-the dragons, what you did to the masters in Qarth and the slaveowners in Astapor, Yunkai, and Meereen, the Unsullied...contrary to what you might think, I do not wish to take away your accomplishments or deny you what is yours just as much as it is mine. I merely ask for your hand in marriage. We are Targaryens, the last of our lineage; it is our duty to stay together, to preserve our family name and inheritance for as long as we are able."

She considered it for a moment for nodding, tentatively. "We will do what we can to confirm your birthright...but I will see to it that you are given freedom to roam the castle rather than spending every day locked in that cell."

Another smile-so much like Viserys's, but lacking any of its malice. "Thank you, my aunt."

Despite her best intentions, he managed to coax a smile out of her. "I never said you could call me that. Daenerys will more than suffice." She turned to go back inside, waiting for him to fall in step beside her, mind spinning. Aegon Targaryen was dead; all of the history books said so. And yet...if it was true, who was this man who had been spared a fiery death and remained unburnt, as she herself had been when faced with the same test?

If he truly was Aegon Targaryen, the sixth of his name, his claim to the throne would be better than hers-and she would have no choice but to marry him, to cement not only her own rule but their family name as well. If he truly was her nephew, that meant she had another family member. She wouldn't be the last Targaryen.

She couldn't decide whether that knowledge made things better or worse.

Aegon cleared his throat, startling her out of her reverie. "I have a gift for you as a token of goodwill, Daenerys, to show you that we are on the same side." For now, at least.

"And what might that be?" She glanced down at his hands; they were noticeably empty.

"My forces are not many, but they are courageous-and they have captured Storm's End. The Stormlands are yours."

~FAS~

"Fencing? For old times' sake?"

Arya looked up quickly, barely catching the sword Jon threw her in midair. "Don't you have to meet with the Queen?" It seemed like he always had to meet with the Queen to discuss something-the Northerners' accommodations, their battle plans for King's Landing, or who exactly would be accompanying the royal standard to Dorne for final negotiations. Jon wouldn't be going, thank the gods.

He rolled his eyes. "She's in a meeting with her small council-which, unfortunately, I am not a part of."

"Yet."

"Arya, it's not like that-"

"It isn't? Really? You've had me fooled." She wasn't a little girl anymore; she'd seen enough in Braavos to know what affection looked like. "And everyone else too, I would think."

"When we reach the Seven Kingdoms, the Queen will have to marry someone advantageous from one of the great houses to forge a strong alliance. You and I will go back to Winterfell and that will be that. I'm never going to be a king, you can be sure of that."

"Why not? I'm sure you'd make a very good one."

"I'm sure the great houses would take very kindly to a bastard king."

"It's happened before, in the Blackfyre Rebellion."

"Which nearly started a war. Well? Are we fencing or are you going to continue to stare out that window all day?"

She grinned and jumped to her feet, testing the sword in her hand. It was heavier and less balanced-lacking Needle's castle made quality-but it would serve its purpose well enough. Her swordplay skills had certainly improved since the days when she'd watched her older brothers training under Donal Noye's careful tutelage; who knew, she might even be able to beat him. "It's only been an hour. The sunset is beautiful from here, you know. You can look out to the east and see nothing but water for as far as the eye can see."

"It feels like the loneliest place on Earth. It reminds me of the Wall, in a way. You don't see sunsets like this south of it." Jon replied, beckoning her into the hallway. "Come-we'll use my room."

Arya was skeptical that a commander's bedchamber would be large enough for their needs, but Jon wasn't lying: the room was at least four times the size of her own, complete with a bed, vanity, large double windows that looked out at the night, and an open space in the middle of the stone floor that looked perfect for duelling. "The Queen treats her generals well."

Jon blushed. "Everything else had already been claimed. I just took what I could find."

"If this is what your room looks like, I would hate to see the royal chambers. They must be simply massive."

Running out of things to say they touched blades and began to duel, steel clacking against steel as the blades met and broke apart again and again in an intricate dance. Just as Arya had predicted, she'd greatly improved-and though Jon was still a better swordsman than she was, she found herself winning some of the matches. She used her size to her advantage, the way she always did-moving swiftly and quietly to score on him before his sword could swing up to protect him.

Finally Jon stepped back, laughing as he disarmed her and sent her blade flying across the room. "You've certainly changed, haven't you? I don't believe you could fence like that at Winterfell."

It was her turn to blush. "Father found me a swordmaster at the Red Keep-and I guess I never stopped practicing." Now that she knew how to swordfight, she couldn't imagine living without it; the blade worked as an extension of her arm and the sing of steel through flesh had become as familiar to her as the ballads madrigals used to sing whenever they came to Winterfell to entertain the ruling family. To not practice and hone her skills would be like chopping off her own arm-it would feel decidedly wrong and she wouldn't be the same. "The Braavosi are known for their abilities. And you're not the same either."

"No? How did I change?"

"The Jon I knew would never have abandoned the Night's Watch, not even when he was resurrected. He would be too honorable to take a hint."

He smirked. "I believe my old self would be appalled if he knew about some of the things I've done over the last year or so-many of which are not honorable at all. But at least you're still you-still unwilling to take no for an answer or do anything that is even remotely ladylike."

I'm not the same, though. I've changed too. Arya had the strangest feeling of standing on opposite cliffs, trying to shout at each other from across a great divide. Years of different experiences, different places, and different people had created a distance between them that had never been there in the days when she would follow him and Robb around Winterfell on some grand adventure they created in their minds-the weight of too many deaths rested on their shoulders in a way it never had before: their parents and their brothers. It made her feel uncomfortable; even when she was younger, she'd always known that Jon had been her constant. And she had no doubt that he would still be her constant now, but she knew things couldn't go back to the way they once were. Even though all she wanted to do was take his hand and run all the way back to Winterfell, reunite with Sansa, and rule the North in peace. She couldn't care less about Southron lords and their petty wars; her duty lay with her family. Once, she was sure Jon would have thought that way too-but she wasn't so sure now. Here he was, commanding an army regardless of his parentage; would he be ready to give it all up so easily, just because she said so?

He nudged her with the hilt of his sword, snapping her back to the present. "Arya? Are you listening?"

Her smile came readily enough, but she couldn't help wondering if it was truly genuine. "Forgive me, I suppose I'm still getting used to the time change. Do you mind if we come back to this later?"

"Of course." Jon replied, his smile as easygoing as ever. "Would you like me to walk you back?"

"No, I'm fine. I think I can find my way around well enough. And if I get lost, I'm sure one of the Unsullied would be more than happy to redirect me." The silent sentries were everywhere, looking down at her from under their ridiculous helmets as though they thought she would stab the Queen or do something equally reckless. She turned to leave, tossing the sword onto his bed easily. "Good night, Jon."

"Good night, Arya. I really am very glad to see you again, you know."

"And I you." That at least was as real as it had ever been. "I'm glad you're not going to Dorne." With that she left, finding her way to her bedchambers on silent feet. Her training in the House of Black and White paid off; she didn't get lost once.

~FAS~

The night air was cold and clear. She could feel it, ruffling the fur on her back and casting the forest around her in shades of fragmented silver. It would be a good night for hunting; as the weather grew cooler her food choices grew more varied-from rabbits to men, who spread their cloaks under a tree to sleep and never woke up again. Summer had been lean, and she had always been hungry. These days, everyone in the pack would eat their fill. There were ten of them, and she was the leader. She dwarfed them all, in size, strength, and stealth; she had quickly proven her worth. She had two betas-a long and slender she wolf with silver fur and quick golden eyes, and a male with tawny fur and eyes to match. They controlled the rest of the pack capably and competently; they had never let her down. She always allowed them the choicest parts of the meat: the eyes, the stomach, and the liver mostly. The heart she took for herself, feeling her jaws snap shut and cut through rib cages like they were nothing but soft cloth.

The tawny wolf howled a mile away-prey. She took off through the forest on silent feet, paws making indentations in the soft covering of snow from the night before. It had come out of nowhere, white flakes whirling down from the sky to cover the ground beneath her feet and sending the pack running to the hot springs to shelter themselves from the sudden cold.

He was crouched over the still warm carcass of a man, perhaps only twenty minutes old. Dead through exposure, perhaps; he had become winter's child as soon as he closed his eyes and surrendered to the chill wind, before it had invaded his soft body, coated his nerves in ice, and frozen the blood of his veins. He was young, no older than twenty, with a mop of curly brown hair. She could not tell what color his eyes were; his eyelids were closed, eyelashes frozen to his skin and to each other-but for a brief moment he reminded her of Robb.

The pack stood around her, silent and waiting, as she placed a paw on his still chest and closed her jaws around his thick neck corded with muscle. Her teeth, sharp as knives, cut through all the blood vessels and sinew fibers holding his head intact, sending red blood gushing down his front. She tasted it in her mouth, staining the fur around her jaw. Bone crunched and broke as she ate, letting his broken body fill hers.

Winter had come; the wolves could tell. They could smell it in the water and feel it in the air, from some part of their brain that had originated long ago-a primal instinct left over from the last Long Night. Yes, this winter would be difficult-the pack would be lean and hungry by the time it was over, if any of them remained alive at all. So she ate with relish, knowing days would come when she wouldn't be so lucky.

His eyes were still staring into hers, a piercing and staring blue, long after she awoke in Dragonstone with the coppery taste of blood still filling her mouth. For a moment, Arya lay still and watched the dragon in the tapestry across the bedroom, trying to take stock of her surroundings. It had been years since she'd had a wolf dream-and she'd certainly never had one that felt so real. She shivered, even though the air off of the harbor was only slightly chilled. If the wolves-strong, powerful, and suited for survival better than perhaps any other creature alive-feared the coming winter, how much worse would men fare?

There was something coming...something terrible. The wolves had sensed it-and for a time, being inside their heads, she had sensed it too.

But she was beginning to feel that she was the only one who could.

~FAS~

Jon's world became a busy rush of meetings with people he barely knew, talking about places he'd never seen and plans he'd discussed not twenty minutes ago with a different advisor. As he'd suspected he didn't have as much time to talk with Dany-in fact, he was lucky if he saw her once or twice a day. It almost made him miss the days on the road, with thousands of men to keep in line and no idea where they would set up camp for the night-even that seemed easier than the mess of people his life had become now.

Not to mention the newcomer, Aegon. No one would dare to call him Prince Aegon-his legitimacy was still open to debate, though Daenerys permitted him to sit at the high dais with her for mealtimes and sit in on her war councils. The threat of what he promised hung over the camp in a barely discernible tension: Jon didn't know much about Targaryens, having only met one, but he knew Dany wouldn't just hand over her birthright and he felt Aegon would feel the same way. If they were ever to split banners...it would be like the Dance of Dragons all over again. The last time two Targaryens had fought over succession, the entire realm had trembled and bled.

"The might of five of the Seven Kingdoms rest behind us." the so called forgotten prince said, moving carved wooden pieces around a map of the continent. "The North has sworn allegiance, as have the Iron Islands and the Stormlands. The Reach and Dorne will be with us soon, and the Vale has pledged to remain neutral in the conflict. That leaves the Westerlands-and one great house cannot stand against seven." Jon had to admit that he looked almost regal, standing beside his aunt with determination in his eyes and the grace of a warrior in his bearing. "My forces will arrive within two days and, when the Tyrells and Martells have negotiated their terms of alliance, we can invade King's Landing within a fortnight. The Lannisters will not last long."

"Your assessment of the situation will be complete only when the harbor is swollen with ships from Sunspear and Highgarden." Tyrion replied, unimpressed. "We have the numbers, certainly-but Cersei Lannister sits on the Iron Throne with nothing left to love or lose. And that makes her dangerous. The Faith Militant tried to gain power in King's Landing too quickly-but even their gods could not save them when the Sept of Baelor was burnt to the ground."

"We will proceed with the utmost caution, of course." Jon could already tell that the Lannister and Aegon didn't get along. "But I cannot see why the Martells and Tyrells would abandon us now when they have already lost so much to the Lannisters."

"Lord Varys has spies in King's Landing." Dany cut in. "They will inform us of anything the Queen is planning. Aegon and I will go to Sunspear as planned, along with Lord Varys." There were many people on Dragonstone who were disappointed not to be going with the Queen; Ser Jorah Mormont talked with her every night and it was common knowledge that he was trying to convince her to let him go by her side, while Jon had to catch flack from the Northerners. "While we are gone, preparations for battle will be ongoing-overseen by Lord Tyrion. I want soldiers training, food and water supplies being replenished, and weapons being sharpened. Once the Tyrells and Martells have sent their ships, we will move quickly-if the Tyrells cut food supplies to King's Landing in protest of the Lannisters, in a week or two the crown will be weakened even further and the city will be ours for the taking." She turned to Yara, who commanded the majority of the Targaryen fleet. "When will the ships be ready to leave?"

"As soon as you need them, your Majesty." Yara replied.

"Very well then." she said, cutting Aegon off before he could start speaking again. "We will leave for Dorne tomorrow." She adjourned the meeting and everyone filtered out to return to their duties-the Targaryen camp was nothing if not efficient, now that their goal was so close at hand. Jon tried to catch her eye but she was distracted by Jorah, who had obviously come to try and reason with her one last time. Reluctantly, he turned to go back to Arya; he needed a little fencing to keep his mind off of things.

"You're Jon Snow-commander of the Northerners, correct?"

He looked up to see Aegon at his side, looking at him with his oddly piercing gaze. "Yes, I am. How may I help you, my Lord?"

"I've just been taking the time to get to know the men who will be leading the battle for the city. My aunt has helped me adjust as best she can, but she is a very busy woman." He cleared his throat. "She is very beautiful, don't you think?"

The question caught Jon off guard. "Of course."

"Has she talked of a marriage alliance once the throne is ours?"

"No. It's never come up." He knew she would need to marry, of course; she would need ties with the great houses if she was going to cement her claim to the throne. "I assumed she was planning to marry you."

"It's certainly an option-we're the last two Targaryens, and the bloodline must be kept alive. Unfortunately, not many of the great houses have young sons of marriageable ages." He looked Jon over almost appraisingly. "In fact, if times were different and we didn't already have the Northerners' support you could have been in the running."

"My place is at Winterfell, not running a kingdom." The mere thought of it terrified him; he wasn't meant to be a ruler, he knew that for certain. And he couldn't even begin to consider the thought of being married to Daenerys Targaryen, of all people.

"Perhaps." He looked almost disappointed. "I've heard people say that you have grown very close to her."

"We've had a few conversations. Nothing serious-certainly nothing intimate. Why?"

Aegon shrugged, looking out at the quickly falling dusk. "I don't know. I suppose I'm just looking for a kindred spirit-I know what it's like, feeling as though you don't have a place in the world. Or even worse, knowing what your place is but not being able to claim it because it's too dangerous." He spit out the last word, digging his fingers into the stone railing. "The Lannisters had my mother raped and murdered. They funded the war that killed my father and grandfather. They said nothing when my older sister, just a small child, was dragged out from under her bed and brutally killed. They kept me from my birthright for years. When I get to King's Landing, I will kill the queen myself-and I will not make her passing easy." He stormed back through the doorway; Jon heard his footfalls on the stairs as he descended.

A kindred spirit...That could come in handy, perhaps, if he really was talking to his next king. If Aegon truly was who he said he was-and how could they ever know for sure?

As he walked back to Arya's bedroom he looked for Daenerys, hoping he would have a chance to say goodbye to her before she left. In a way, he wished he could accompany her to Dorne-though he knew his place was with his men, orchestrating their takeover of King's Landing. Of course, she had her own security detail of Unsullied who were ready to defend her with their lives-but he still worried about her, every now and then. Dorne was a land of poisons-would the Unsullied be able to recognize a rare poison if it had been poured into her drink? Would they know the antidote?

He hoped Arya wasn't about to hate him forever.

She was sitting on the edge of her bed, staring out the window at the rolling black sea and polishing her sword. Needle, he remembered. He'd given it to her so long ago; he had no idea she'd still held onto it, all this time. "Hello, Jon."

"Hello." he replied, sitting down next to her. "Arya, I have to ask a favor of you." It was no use trying to talk around the subject or make small talk; his younger sister was much too smart for that.

"What is it?" she replied, regarding him curiously. She wouldn't stop polishing her sword; the cloth wiped in endless circles, almost as if she was feeling a desperate need to make sure her hands stayed in motion.

"I trust you. I trust you more than I trust anyone in the world. You know that, of course. But...I feel you've been keeping something from me-and I think I've managed to put together the pieces. Arya, you said you've been in the Free Cities for the last year. But you never told me where. Were you, by any chance, in Braavos?"

He'd expected her to look away or try to deny it-but instead her sharp eyes found his and held his gaze, head on. "How did you figure it out?"

He smirked. "Not many other places would teach you how to swordfight like that-or move silently up and down the stairs like a cat, or memorize the layout of a confusing castle like this in the darkness. If you don't want to tell me the specifics, I won't pry-but I need your help with something. I need your abilities."

"Would you spit it out already? You're terrible at prefacing these things." She grinned at him and for a moment it felt like they were children in Winterfell again, planning an adventure with just the two of them (Robb had lessons, Sansa was too ladylike, and the boys were too young).

He couldn't find it in him to grin back. "I would like you to accompany the Queen to Dorne, posing as her handmaiden-though your real purpose would be to protect her from assassins."

Arya's eyes narrowed. "You want to get rid of me so soon?"

"No, it's not that. It's not that at all." He scrubbed a hand through his hair nervously, feeling bile churn in his throat. This wasn't how this was supposed to go. "It's just...you're the only one I trust."

"Daenerys has her own security guards."

"Yes, but they weren't trained in Braavos as you were. They aren't...women. They won't know women's ways and women's poisons the way you do. It's only for a few days and I would feel better if you were with her. If you don't want to go I understand completely and I won't try to press you or force you-but I beg you to consider it."

Arya was silent for a long time, staring down at her sword. The cloth had finally stopped moving. "You care about her, don't you?"

"Yes. I'm choosing you because I trust you to keep her safe-no one else, just you." It felt strange saying the words, but they needed to be said-otherwise he was afraid he wouldn't be able to convince her to leave. "And yes, I care about her. I care about her because she's the only claimant for the Iron Throne who seems to give a shit about anything other than money and intercourse."

"She acts like it-but how do you know she's like that on the inside? Plenty of people are one way in the eyes of the public but completely different behind closed doors."

"She hasn't destroyed a sept yet."

"You know, I haven't known her for very long but Daenerys Targaryen strikes me as someone who can take care of herself and resents being told she can't."

"And I'm not saying she can't. All I'm saying is that I trust you...just in case. I'll talk to her about it. All you need to do is dress up in a fancy dress for a few days and be bored out of your skull."

She shook her head, but the smallest of smiles had appeared on her face. "I can't believe it. I never thought you'd ever fall for somebody-much less a girl who is so completely out of your league that she'll probably discard you as soon as she gets tired of you."

"It doesn't matter." It did, but it wasn't a matter that was worth thinking about. "I don't want her dead. She's probably the best chance to defeat the Lannisters we have."

"Jon, this isn't about the Lannisters is it?" Her grin widened. "I'll bet she fascinates you. You've probably had a deep and meaningful conversation. Maybe you've even kissed. You just don't understand how someone like her can exist-strong willed, defiant, and unwilling to take no for an answer but also just as gentle, kind, and tender. You hear all the legends that surround her and you have no idea which ones to believe because they all seem equally likely. You've never met anyone like her-and now you're determined to be her knight in shining armor, even though you know you'll never mean a thing to her."

"She also happens to be one of the saviours prophesized to save us from the eternal winter."

That made her laugh. "Gods. There's more than one? I suppose a girl can't have dragons and be a queen and save the world."

"I'm the other one."

"We're all doomed, aren't we?"

"Funny. Now, will you please tell me whether or not you're going?"

"Fine. I'll go-not because I think either of you are heroes or because I think she's the right person for the Iron Throne or even because I care who you bed. I'll go because you asked me to and because even after everything that's happened you're still my brother. Although I'll be wearing pants under my dresses."

He laughed and stood, ruffling her short hair. He was still getting used to seeing her without her customary brown locks. "If you insist, my lady. And thank you, Arya. Truly."

She grinned. "I still think you've turned into a ridiculous sap."

"Perhaps I have-but no one else needs to know."

"Of course. They'll find out for themselves soon enough."

~FAS~

Daenerys was only slightly surprised when Jon came to find her later that night. Usually he stayed away from her unless she specifically asked for him. She supposed she should be happy he was staying with his men-he would probably be happier with them rather than spending his nights teaching her how to wield a sword. Still, she wished he could come with her-even if it was just to see how a white wolf reacted to the hot sun. But his place was here with everyone else-as she'd had to explain to Jorah and Daario half a dozen times each.

"Isn't it a bit late?" she asked as he stood in the doorway, looking past her to the fire roaring in the grate and the hastily made Targaryen banner flying proudly above the mantel. It was the royal suite, last occupied by Stannis Baratheon-and the gods knew what happened to him. "I didn't think you were still up."

"Do you ever sleep, your Grace?" he replied with a teasing smile. "No matter how ungodly the hour is, you always seem to be awake."

"I could say the same about you." she said. "What do you need, Jon?"

"My sister Arya desires to accompany you to Dorne as a handmaiden. She's been in Braavos for so long that I'm afraid she's quite forgotten how to be a lady." Or she never really cared to learn.

"And you want me to teach her? I'll be very busy, you know-I can't exactly be teaching her how to curtsy…"

"She's an extremely quick learner. You'll like her, I promise."

"If she's your sister, there's a good chance I will." she replied. "Very well then-but she'll need to entertain herself when I'm in meetings."

"I'm sure that won't be a problem for her. Shall I tell her to pack a bag?"

"Yes-we leave tomorrow morning." He was almost out the door when she called him back. "I apologize-I've been so busy that I haven't asked how you have been settling in."

"It's not your fault. I can see you've been very busy yourself. Besides, there's not much to ask about. The Northerners are settled in-we're just waiting for your signal." It didn't take long for the sudden silence between them to turn awkward. "Do you believe Aegon really is who he says he is?"

She sighed; if it was anyone else she would have said yes because it would make things so much easier-but because it was Jon, she felt better confessing "I don't know. Viserion's fire didn't burn him, as the fire didn't burn me when I walked through my husband's funeral pyre to hatch my children. But...the story he tells is impossible, and if he really is my brother's son, his claim to the Iron Throne is better than mine."

"Bearing all of that in mind, do you want him to be real?"

Again she shrugged helplessly. "I don't know. There are some in the Seven Kingdoms who may rally to my banners more readily if a man rules beside me-and the Targaryen lineage will be secure, at least for another generation. He seems kind enough-though it really is too early to tell. There's no one to vouch for him; he could easily be another usurper, for all that we know about him. But if he is a Targaryen, he could mount banners to his cause and try to fight me-losing countless lives. How can I turn him away, unless I have proof? How can I afford to underestimate him as a threat?"

"What if he doesn't betray you and you find you can consider him a friend?"

"I think that's even more unbelievable. Everyone is a threat, in one way or another." She hadn't been able to let her guard down enough to really trust someone in years-and every time she thought she was getting close, something would happen that would strengthen the walls she built around herself even further.

She knew it was only a matter of time before Jon betrayed her too.

And even so, she found herself embracing him- even more surprising, he quickly moved to embrace her back. She stayed there for a few minutes, safe in the circle of his arms and feeling his heartbeat under his short leather vest (he was finally starting to wear some cooler clothes, but the change was gradual). "I know I haven't thanked you properly for everything you've done the past few weeks. You made the journey south much smoother than it could have been-especially because you could easily be the King in the North right now, instead of getting ready to fight another battle."

He chuckled into her hair, still holding her close. "There are always battles to fight, my lady-and the worst are still to come. Besides, Sansa deserves Winterfell more than I do. My father's bannermen would not rally around me as a bastard-and even a legitimization wouldn't change that. Not really, at least."

"You're still a Stark. His blood runs in your veins-I'm sure that, after a time, they would see that."

"Perhaps-but I'm better suited to a battlefield than I am to a palace. And you don't need to thank me for anything. If you hadn't come to the Wall I may have lost both my home and my sister for good. I'm merely paying back what I owe you. You'll be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms someday; like the rest of us, I am yours to command."

Coming back to her senses, she gently disentangled herself-though she couldn't help but realize how much she missed his warmth, and the feeling of his hair tickling her skin. "That was extremely unprofessional."

"I suppose I didn't help things, did I?" His grin faded for a moment and he cleared his throat, meeting her gaze before she could turn away. "I hope you won't work yourself too hard while you're gone-Tyrion Lannister is a capable advisor and the army will be in good hands. And...I hope one day I might be able to convince you that I am not your enemy, and I wish to help you in whatever way I can."

She squeezed his hand, for once not caring if anyone was watching or what they might think. "I know." she replied. With that she turned away in silent dismissal; she wasn't quite finished packing yet, but she couldn't afford to waste another day. They didn't need the element of surprise, but they couldn't waste too much time either.

By the time she finished, the doorway was empty and Jon had taken his leave.

 **So I know in the books Targaryens aren't fire proof but the show seems to be doing things differently so I'll take artistic license.**

 **Review, follow, and favorite! Thanks for reading!**


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